“Les rubyat, schepki letyat,” she whispered, when you chop wood, woodchips will fly.
Groaning, Nate sat up and they kissed. He brushed a strand of hair out of the corner of her mouth, and she wiped her face with her hand. The old line came to mind. “Why didn’t you tell me I was in love with you?” said Nate. Dominika started laughing.
Udranka and Marta, sitting across from them, looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Wearing his shirt, Dominika boosted herself onto the kitchen counter and watched as Nate, radiating purple and wearing only his boxer shorts, sliced an onion and garlic and sautéed them in fragrant green olive oil. He sliced roasted peppers into thin strips and added them to the pan. He opened a can of peeled tomatoes and squeezed them beneath the surface of their juice to avoid squirts. The hand-smashed tomatoes went into the pan—with a pinch of sugar—to start bubbling with the rest. Nate held a bushy branch of dried oregano over the pot and gently crushed some leaves into the stew. He reached for a square tin of paprika.
“Paprika,” said Nate, holding up the tin. “Have you ever tasted it?”
“What a strange word, ‘paprika,’ ” said Dominika, deadpan. “No, we did not have such things in my village, living alongside our pigs in the living room.” Nate smiled and added a dash. “Another strange word is ‘tupitsa,’ ” said Dominika. “Do you know it?” Nate knew it meant “dunce”; he shook his head that he didn’t understand, but Dominika knew he did.
The pan was simmering, and Nate turned on the little oven and put slices of country bread on the upper rack. When they were golden he rubbed each slice with a clove of garlic.
“All this garlic probably reminds you of the village,” said Nate, not looking at her. Dominika tried not to smile.
Nate made three indentations in the simmering stew and cracked three eggs into the spaces. He slid the pan into the still-hot oven until the eggs were set, then carried the pan out to the terrace. Dominika followed with the toasted bread and two bottles of cold beer. They sat on the terrace floor—the marble was still slightly warm from the afternoon sun—the steaming pan on a low table between them, and dipped the toasted garlic bread and ate forkfuls of peppers, tomatoes, and runny egg yolk. At the first taste, Dominika looked up at Nate, a question on her face.
“Pipérade,” said Nate, “from the Basque part of France.”
“And where did you learn this?”
“College summer in Europe,” said Nate. He dipped more bread.
“Very romantic,” said Dominika.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” said Nate.
“You are your biggest devotee,” said Dominika, leaning over toward him. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. “May I ask about the officer Benford wants to send to meet me? Do you know her?”
Nate nodded, determined not to feel, act, or look guilty.
“She’s young, but one of the best street operators I’ve ever seen. Benford thinks so too.”
Dominika noticed his purple halo was pulsing.
“I observed most of her training. She’s unbelievable,” said Nate. More purple pulsing. He was conscious only of delivering his good-natured endorsement of Hannah Archer.
“Did you tell her about me?” said Dominika idly, dipping a piece of bread. Nate recognized that when a woman casually asks a man whether he has described her to another woman, there is considerable, imminent danger: the first puffs of oven-hot wind before the squall descends; the twenty pricked-up ears of the lion pride pointed at the stalled Land Rover; the rustle of monkey’s wings in the trees on the road to Oz. Considerable danger.
“She has read your file,” said Nate noncommittally. “She knows about the work you do. She admires you.” Knowing this woman had read her file and “admired her” nettled Dominika. Control yourself, she thought. You’re not a jealous schoolgirl. But Nate’s halo was still pulsing.
“What is her name?” said Dominika, picking up empty bottles and leftover bread. Nate carried the pan of pipérade into the kitchen.
“Hannah,” said Nate, hearing the shadow in Dominika’s voice.
“Khanna,” said Dominika, with a guttural h. “It is a good name, an ancient one. We know it in Russia.” She was standing at the sink, running water and making a mound of suds. She scraped the pan, immersed it in the sink, and began scrubbing, head down, shoulders hunched. Nate stood behind her and put his arms around her waist.
“Domi, she’s your contact on the street,” he whispered. “She put down all your SRAC sensors. She’s twenty-seven years old. She’s an officer of our agency.”
“Do you like her, as a person?” Dominika asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah, she’s great. More important, you’ll like her,” said Nate. He felt Dominika’s shoulders come down an inch, relaxing. Jesus, he thought. She’s so damn perceptive, though, like a mind reader.
“Besides, you should be worrying about washing this pan,” he said. “You’re splashing water everywhere.” Dominika turned and splashed a handful of water on Nate’s chest. He reached around her, dipped his hands in the suds, and wet her shirt. They splashed some more water until her front was a clinging, transparent mess, her breasts visible through the sopping fabric. His boxers were in no better condition.
She turned her back to him, reached into the sink, and started scrubbing again. “I’m not finished with this pan,” she said.
“Keep scrubbing,” said Nate, lifting her shirttail and rhumba-stepping out of his shorts. Nate’s initial movement from behind pushed Dominika forward and she had to catch herself, arms in suds up to the elbows. Subsequent movements caused a slopping wave action, which apart from creating a syncopation of slapping sounds, resulted in an ample amount of water splashing on their legs and feet.
Sometime later, they looked like the last guests at Caligula’s house party, sitting on the kitchen floor in a pool of water, backs against the cabinets, waiting for their hearts to slow down. Nate’s shirt was a sodden knot in the center of the floor and his shorts were under the small table across the kitchen. An occasional errant drop of water from the counter around the sink would drip onto one of their shoulders. Dominika’s chest was white with dried dish-soap bubbles, and a tendril of her hair hung in her face.
“Thanks for helping with the dishes,” said Nate.
Nate drove Dominika home through empty, predawn Athens, ghosting through intersections colored by flashing traffic signals. The car hissed through water on the streets from the crews who hosed down the sidewalks at night. Nate would drop her off a few blocks from her hotel and she would walk in.
“You’ll send your report to the Center soon?” said Nate. His voice sounded funny to his ears, as if another person were speaking. He was tired.
“I’ll recommend General Solovyov be summoned to Moscow for investigation,” said Dominika. “That’s how it’s done. They will write that they want him at the Aquarium for something nonalerting—consultations, promotion panel, to sit on an advisory board.”
“How fast will it come after you send your recommendation?” said Nate.
“Very fast,” said Dominika. “You must be sure to get him out of Greece immediately. Zyuganov will want to reel him in right away, to embarrass GRU and to earn credit with the Kremlin. I will report to Hannah through SRAC on what the reaction is to his defection.” She smiled. “And how many medals they will give me.” The casual mention of Hannah, suddenly now a fixture in their professional lives, jangled in the air. Nate was sure Dominika mentioned her on purpose. “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” said Dominika.
Nate wanted her to focus. “Zyuganov will be furious with you for having identified the traitor ahead of him,” he said.
Dominika shrugged. “What can he do?”
“You forget the last time Zyuganov was upset with you,” said Nate. “I was there. I seem to remember a Spetsnaz killer, a nasty-looking knife, and a lot of bandages.”
“It is different now,” said Dominika. “Zyuganov could not risk such games.
” She put her hand on Nate’s arm. “Just be sure to get the general out. Do not fail me.”
Dominika’s flash precedence message from the Athens rezidentura requesting the immediate recall to Moscow of GRU Lieutenant General Mikhail Nikolaevich Solovyov on suspicion of espionage hit the Center like a bomb. Those few senior officers on the restricted list who days before had read the latest TRITON report knew Captain Egorova—who was not cleared and who had not read TRITON’s reporting—was absolutely correct and consequently had scored a tremendous counterintelligence coup. The added benefit was that Solovyov had been unmasked as a result of a straight CI investigation, which automatically protected TRITON as the source.
This brilliant officer was a hero, and nothing less, they all said. The director, ministers, and President Putin himself all wanted to see her when she returned, and rumors of promotion to the rank of major began circulating. Egorova would stay in Athens for a few days to wrap up her interviews, but really to keep an eye on Solovyov and create the illusion of a routine investigation winding down, so he would respond to the recall without suspicion. Once the general was behind bars in Moscow, official praise could be heaped on Egorova.
Zyuganov had trouble focusing on a printed copy of Egorova’s cable because the paper shook in his hand. His professional standing had been expanding, his position with the Kremlin was becoming stronger each day, especially in the matter of the Iranian shipment. And Putin had telephoned him personally on the encrypted Kremlovka line after the action against the French: He had seen police forensic photographs of Mme Didier, the Russian traitor, and the two DGSE security men in the ruined apartment. A hysterical Élysée had lodged a howling protest, and the DGSE had withdrawn its officers from Moscow. A phlegmatic Putin breathed one word over the phone, Maladyets, well done. Zyuganov swelled up like a toad with pride.
But the glow of these recent successes was now eclipsed by Egorova’s triumph in Greece, a triumph that specifically reduced his stature. No one in Headquarters was talking about anything but that pneumatic prostitute. In the privacy of his office, Zyuganov had gone into a paroxysm of silent rage, convinced that Egorova was working to ridicule, denigrate, and mock him. She had her eye on his present job, he was convinced, and she would see to it that his chance at becoming deputy director was derailed. Zyuganov’s bat-cave soul swelled with thoughts of murder.
He stewed at his desk, working things out. An accident, even one properly staged, would now be too coincidental. The notion of Egorova defecting to a Western service a day after exposing another traitor would be ridiculous. If Egorova simply disappeared, failed to return to Moscow, the theories, rumors, and suppositions would multiply by the dozen. Then an idea came to him, a crawly idea from under a damp log, with the promise of chaos, deceit, and misdirection to insulate him from detection and Putin’s ire. He pushed the button on his phone.
Eva sat down in front of him as she had done before. Zyuganov slid a file across the desk, Egorova’s personnel file. Photo, service record, training in Sistema hand-to-hand fighting, Sparrow School. Eva breathed the pages, nostrils flaring, memorizing the spoor. She finished reading, closed the file, and gave it back. She didn’t need notes; she wouldn’t forget. Zyuganov pushed another smaller photo, passport sized, to Eva. It was a visa photo of Madeleine Didier. Zyuganov leaned forward, held Eva’s eyes, and whispered.
“Strangle her and leave this under her body,” said Zyuganov, pointing at the snap. “No gun, no knife; use electrical cord. And take her clothes.”
A hot jeton of comprehension in Eva’s brain fell into the slot and she made the connection: Egorova’s death would look like a reciprocal action by the French service to avenge Didier. She looked at Zyuganov for confirmation that she had it right.
He nodded.
It was intensely interesting to Zyuganov, one sort of monster, to see Eva, a derivative miscreation, put her head back and laugh, with the sound of a bag of cleavers bouncing down a flight of stairs. Voskhititel’nyy, delicious.
PIPÉRADE—BASQUE PEPPER STEW
Sauté sliced onions and garlic in oil until soft. Add thin strips of roasted red peppers and crushed peeled tomatoes, season with salt, pepper, oregano, and paprika, and simmer until incorporated. Break eggs onto the top of the sauce and finish in the oven until the eggs are set but the yolks are still runny. Serve with grilled country bread or as a side dish.
28
Benford had traveled incognito to Berlin to approach the SBE, the Spezialle Bundestatigkeiten-Einheit, the Federal Special Activities Unit, a discreet civilian intelligence outfit of twelve officers that reported directly to the office of the president. No one outside the German president’s office was aware of the SBE, which was charged with managing operations that were either so sensitive or so politically risky that it was preferable the larger federal intel services like the BND or BfV not be involved.
Smelling baked bread as he walked through the pleasant Mitte neighborhood to Robert Koch Platz, Benford entered the unguarded front door of the Bibliothek der Akademie der Künste, the Library of the Academy of Arts, and rode the shuddering elevator to the disused fourth floor, where the offices of the SBE were concealed behind a plain door enigmatically labeled “Werkzeug,” Utility. He was greeted by Herr Dieter Jung, the chief of the SBE, a man of average height and thinning hair, with a large nose and round glasses, who was skeptical, perceptive, and droll beyond his fifty years. It was also clear to Benford that Herr Jung was a consummate politician. Perfunctory introductions to a handful of SBE officers were made—two were attractive women in their thirties—and Benford was given coffee and cake.
Without preamble, Benford outlined the requirement and asked Herr Jung for assistance in aiding a technical team to gain unescorted access to the Wilhelm Petrs factory on Puschkinallee in Alt-Treptow, southwest of the river. He omitted most of the technical details, but he did tell Jung that this operation had the potential to set the Iranian nuclear program back five years. Benford airily said he needed a discreet escort for the team to and from the facility.
“I’m sure you do,” sniffed Jung in fluent English, lighting a cigarette and then delicately picking a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “But it’s out of the question.”
Benford pressed, invoking Euro-Atlantic amity and the NATO alliance. Herr Jung was a picture of Olympian detachment, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. Benford plunged on, now bringing in the Berlin airlift, John F. Kennedy, Marlene Dietrich, and David Hasselhoff. Stony silence, but slight wavering. Benford made to get up from his chair but paused, and then quietly suggested that he could share reporting on Russian intelligence activity in Germany.
“That information would be of mild interest,” said Jung distractedly as he looked out a window.
Benford knew that despite SBE’s protected status, Jung always needed operational successes to justify budgets, maintain presidential favor, and improve his prospects of promotion out of this library attic and into a Minister’s office. He leaned forward and summarized a specific report detailing the recent SVR recruitment of a male Bundestag member from the Green Party, a recruitment based chiefly on the parliamentarian’s weekend predilection for steam baths and birch branches.
“An interesting lead,” said Jung, twirling a pencil, “if true.” But Benford knew he was hooked.
The two attractive female SBE operatives were assigned as liaison officers for the team, which consisted of the whip-thin tech Hearsey and the two PROD engineers Bromley and Westfall. Marty Gable was included, primarily to manage operational equities, which essentially meant he would handle the two SBE officers, Ulrike Metzger and Senta Goldschmidt, to ensure no flaps occurred.
In the very early hours of a chilly fall morning, the SBE officers drove the CIA team to the closed rear gate of the Petrs factory and watched as Hearsey leaned over the lock in the sally door and fiddled for two minutes before straightening up and easing it open. A wave, and the German officers were gone—they would wait around t
he corner in the van until the team signaled for a pickup.
Hearsey opened the inner employee door to the main factory building in ninety seconds, and the four proceeded silently through an entrance hall. Bromley and Westfall wore backpacks and each dragged a large, wheeled, black canvas duffel bag.
“No cameras?” asked Gable.
Hearsey shook his head. “German employees’ union won a national lawsuit to have security cameras taken out of all canteens and break rooms. EU privacy laws. Not bad.”
“Guards, alarms?” whispered Gable.
“Door alarm on the main office door only. Not even a watchman. Not so many secrets to a seismic isolation floor,” said Hearsey.
They walked down a corridor past a cold café that still smelled of coffee and rolls, and stopped before turning the corner of the hallway.
“They leave the factory floor unguarded?” asked Gable.
“Not quite,” said Hearsey. “Final hurdle.”
Hearsey put his mouth next to Gable’s ear. “Last stretch of corridor before the factory floor,” he whispered. “Motion-detection sensor at the end.”
Gable watched as Bromley and Westfall took a series of telescoping plastic tubes out of their packs and quickly fit them together in a frame six feet square, over which they stretched an opaque gauzy fabric that they clipped at intervals around the frame.
“Stay close together,” whispered Hearsey, holding one side of the frame up in front of him while Westfall held the other. Bromley, grinning, stepped up to Gable, put her arm around his waist, pulled him close, and eased in tight behind the two others. They all had done this before, Gable noted. Bunched together, arms around shoulders as if in a rugby scrum, bent behind the gauzy barrier, they rounded the corner and started shuffling slowly down the corridor, medieval siege troops approaching the castle wall, air full of arrows.
Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason Page 37
