Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason

by Jason Matthews

  Dominika followed the guard jeep with the rotating yellow light down a broad avenue, the palace looming to the left, then in a wide curve past administrative buildings and the multistory hotel that accommodated conference attendees, through a park of trees and well-tended lawns, a fountain, a baroque gingerbread house with a double-eagle medallion on the peak of the roof and through another gate with the candy-cane barrier already raised. They passed modern, boxy two-story mansions with light-green mansard roofs, one after another. Dominika counted ten or twelve, and there were others behind these, all of them dark and sitting naked in a park devoid of trees and crisscrossed with cement walkways. These were the VIP cottages reserved for heads of state during international gatherings at the Palace of Congresses State Complex, right on the shore. The Gulf of Finland was visible in the growing light, and Dominika wondered what President Putin would say if he knew there was a US Navy minisubmarine out there under the surface, carrying a Russian military officer to safety in the West, a two-star general who had been a reporting source of CIA. Would he break a bloodstained canine gnashing his teeth?

  They pulled into the circular drive of the last of the cottages—it was brightly lit. A dozen other cars were parked in a small contiguous lot. Of the eighteen mansions, this was the closest to the sea. A butler in white coat came out of the house to take Dominika’s pitiful suitcase inside. Another attendant stood to park the car. Dominika dully realized that the ripple-soled shoes in her bag most likely had beach sand on them, as surely did the floor mats of the car. Nothing she could do about it now. As they climbed the shallow steps of the mansion a stubby blue helicopter roared overhead, the range lights on its belly flashing, then banked sharply over the water and came back to buzz the mansion.

  The vast entrance hall was marble and gilt trim and frescoed ceilings. Russians living in the mean little towns between here and Moscow slept in single rooms with dirt floors, but the praviteli, the lords of the country, swathed themselves in rococo splendor. Dominika’s heels clicked on the travertine, echoing in the space, producing a doomsday clockwork tick-tock sound. A side door opened and a majordomo approached. An obsequious welcome and the suggestion that perhaps the captain would like some light refreshment after her long drive. You have no idea, Tolstoy, thought Dominika. She was exhausted. He led the way through tall glass doors that opened onto a sprawling terrazzo patio with a sweeping view of the ocean. Radiant heating units negated the morning chill. A sideboard groaning with chafing dishes, crystal decanters, and silver bowls filled with flowers stretched along the side wall. Dominika took a flute of juice.

  She walked to the railing to look down on a lower-level terrace with an enormous swimming pool lit by aqua-colored underwater spots, bright even in the rising morning light. Steam rose from the heated water. Two men in dark suits—blobs of brown around their heads—stood at either end of the pool, watching the president of the Russian Federation swim laps. Putin was using a punishing butterfly stroke, coming up massively in the water and with clenched fists hammering the water in front of him. There was nothing of the silky dolphin undulation of the expert butterfly swimmer—Dominika had seen Nate swim fly with virtually no splashing. Each time Putin came up to breathe, water streamed from his face and he would blow like a whale, throwing out a mist cloud in front of him, tinged aqua either by the pool lights or by the aura around his head and shoulders. After a full length, he showed no sign of tiring and Dominika turned away. At the other end of the terrace was a grouping of chairs—a single man was sitting with his back to her. He turned as he heard her approaching footsteps.

  It was Govormarenko of Iskra-Energetika, the crapulent Putin crony who had negotiated the seismic-floor deal with the Persians. She remembered the dark comma of eyebrows over the hooked nose, the wavy white hair of the debauchee. He rose as Dominika approached, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. There was a full plate of food and a half-empty flagon of beer on the low table in front of him. He was dressed casually, in black slacks, a peach sweater, and white leather Gucci driving moccasins.

  “Captain Egorova, welcome,” he said, smiling. Despite the napkin, there were crumbs clotted at the corners of his mouth. He remembered my name, thought Dominika. Either I’m on the agenda or he wants to share a hot tub.

  “Gospodin Govormarenko,” said Dominika, nodding.

  “What an early arrival,” he said, “but a pleasure to see you again.” He gestured to a chair.

  “I drove last night from Moscow,” said Dominika, sitting on a separate armchair. It would do no harm to establish her cover story about last night. “I plan on visiting family in Petersburg.” She looked out at the sea. The rising sun was coloring the small whitecaps pink, and the sky promised to be cloudless. The terrace was still and comfortable, despite the frontage on an open coast: Spotless glass panels around the terrace railing blocked the wind.

  “My God, no one drives from Moscow; you’re lucky to be alive,” said Govormarenko, flirting. “You should have told me. I would have sent my plane to fetch you.”

  Fetch me a vomiting basin, thought Dominika. It was certain that Govormarenko’s private jet would have love stains on the couch and thumbprints on the windows. “Perhaps next time,” she said. She tried to switch him off. “Gospodin Govormarenko, you are up early,” said Dominika. She would have guessed that he would be a reluctant riser, preferring the warmth of his sour, hoggish bed. He reached for a plate of golden draniki, folded one of the potato pancakes in half—rich mushroom sauce oozed out the end—and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Captain, I insist you call me Vasili,” he said, chewing. He looked at a ponderous Breitling wristwatch with a toffee-colored face. “The president rises early for a swim. He wishes to discuss progress regarding the Iran deal. Have you heard the latest developments?”

  “I trust the news is good,” said Dominika, trying not to look at the daub of mushroom sauce on the front of Govormarenko’s sweater.

  “It’s better than good,” said Govormarenko. “The powered barge transporting the cargo has cleared the Volga delta canal at Astrakhan. Transit of the Caspian to Bandar-e Anzali should take four days, weather permitting. Tehran has already deposited four hundred and fifty million euros in the Central Bank, and the remainder will be paid on delivery in five days. Nabiullina is arriving today to make a report on the transfers.”

  Dominika did not look forward to seeing the chairman of the Central Bank again, the suspicious Putin favorite who questioned Dominika on how she had conceived of the water delivery route through Russia. Suka, bitch.

  Govormarenko folded another pancake and swallowed it whole. “Thirty-seven billion rubles,” he said. “You will not have to drive to Saint Petersburg ever again, Captain.” Govormarenko sat back in his chair and looked at Dominika.

  “I’m not sure I understand you, Vasili,” said Dominika.

  “I’m sure you know exactly what I mean,” said Govormarenko. “Earnings for you could come to eight and a half, nine million rubles. If you want to shop in New York, that would be a quarter of a million dollars.” Earnings. He can calculate like a machine, convert currencies in his head, thought Dominika. How many ways would they cut up the Persians’ money? How big would the president’s share be? It would be interesting to know where they stashed their money abroad.

  “The Iran deal was an excellent example of behind-the-scenes intelligence work supporting a commercial deal that helped Russia,” said Govormarenko, lifting his mug of beer and draining it. “We supported an important client state, we extended influence in a strategically important region, and we have boosted the prestige of the Rodina in the world.” There it was again: Vranyo, the Russian Lie.

  “Helped Russia?” said Dominika. Govormarenko ignored the irony with a wave of his hand.

  “You are a member of the consortium of creative partners that made it possible. And you should profit from your participation—you will profit. And there will be other commercial endeavors. We’ll need someone in the Service on
our team.”

  “And what would the director say about such an arrangement?” said Dominika.

  Govormarenko shrugged. “He’s retiring soon. And Zarubina will either come in or stay out. She’s brilliant, but old school. It’s her choice.” He reached over to pat Dominika’s knee. “It’s enough to know that we have a brilliant protégée in the Center.” This warthog is recruiting me as the oligarchs’ penetration of the Service, thought Dominika. Certainly with Putin’s blessing. Benford, what do you think of that? And he just confirmed that Zarubina will become the new director on her return from Washington.

  “And Colonel Zyuganov?” said Dominika. “He worked with you closely to achieve these wonders. Is he part of the team?”

  “It is a little different with Zyuganov,” said Govormarenko, confidentially. “The colonel could do with a course of charm school.” It couldn’t be clearer: Zyuganov is not part of this cabal; he’s excluded. He won’t last forever, thought Dominika. What a useful look inside the cave—Nate and Benford would value this information.

  In the next instant, three things occurred simultaneously: The majordomo rushed out onto the terrace, leaned over, and whispered into Govormarenko’s ear; four men in militsiya uniforms filed through the glass doors and walked up to the table; and President Putin, followed by his two mastiffs, came up a flight of steps from the pool level in his swimsuit. He was shirtless and had a towel draped around his shoulders. He looked at the policemen, then at Govormarenko, then with a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth—indicating runaway mirth, or perhaps the first heave of towering rage—he nodded to Dominika. He’s shirtless in a wet bathing suit and I’m wearing a cocktail dress, she thought wearily. And this morning a Navy SEAL called me ma’am while I was in my bra. The sun was up now, and the ocean had turned from gray to blue, matching the pulsing blue annulus around the president’s head.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Govormarenko, speaking instead of the president.

  The lead militsiya officer came to attention. “Orders from Headquarters, sir.”

  Govormarenko stuffed another pancake into his mouth. “What orders?”

  “A full search bulletin on a vehicle traveling from Moscow. A police air unit tracked it here, sir.”

  “Whose car is it?” asked Govormarenko.

  “It’s probably mine,” said Dominika, sipping juice from her glass. “It’s from the motor pool in Yasenevo.” The militsiya officer darted a look at the other cops. Shit, she’s SVR, and the president is standing three feet away.

  “And why was the bulletin issued?” said Govormarenko.

  The cop shrugged. “I don’t know sir, just that Headquarters said the order was from Moscow.”

  Finally the reedy voice, short and sharp. “Never mind why; who issued the order?” said Putin.

  The cop was sweating now. “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

  Putin glanced at Dominika, who was trying to lounge casually in her chair. Dominika saw that he already knew everything. “I really don’t think Captain Egorova is a fugitive,” Putin said quietly. “You men are dismissed.”

  Seb Angevine put his feet up on the desk and admired his Crockett & Jones oxfords from London, £350, $600, hand-stitched by some Bob Cratchit specifically for him. His suit coat hung on a hanger behind his closed office door, charcoal-gray lightweight wool by Brioni, £4,500 or $6,000, which was accented admirably by his dark-blue seven-fold silk tie from Marinella in Naples, $200.

  Seb was killing time before his secretary left for the day so he could set up the little Chobi Camera—this one was Gamma—and fast scroll cables on his desktop monitor while the camera was recording on high-res video. Tonight would be special: He would capture a finance office payment roster with the true names of the most sensitive assets in the CIA stable. Angevine didn’t care who they were—they all should know there was risk being a spy; they had to take their chances. Hell, he was taking a risk spying for the Russians. But the only really important name, the one Zarubina would pay him a million dollars for, was the Russian name on the list. After Muriel poked her head in to say good night, Seb took out the segmented, bendy minitripod, screwed the camera onto the mount, made sure the camera was oriented correctly, and started the video function. Angevine fast scrolled about fifty cables, then stopped. On instinct he swept the tripod and tiny camera into an open desk drawer just as there was a knock on his door and the elephantine face of Gloria Bevacqua, the director of the Clandestine Service, peered around the corner.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” she said, stepping inside the office. Her dirty-blond hair in a short bob showed dark roots and was sticking out in back. She wore a tangerine pantsuit of Orlon or rayon with dirty sleeves and a dried stain high on the left shoulder, as if she had been burping a baby that spit up milk.

  Yes, I’ve been copying hundreds of classified cables off the Agency’s secure cable system to deliver to Moscow tomorrow night for a seven-figure payment, the result of which hopefully will destroy your ability to manage the Clandestine Service. “No, Gloria,” said Angevine. “What can I do for you?”

  Bevacqua left a few minutes later, huffy that Angevine had declined to serve on a newly formed administrative review panel she was organizing. She needed senior-officer filler to serve on the commission and thought asking Angevine personally would compel him to agree. No such luck, you slob, Angevine thought. Allez au charbon, go back to your sty.

  Angevine set his camera up again and started scrolling. He left the finance asset roster for the last, and scrolled down at normal speed, reading it carefully. There it was, his million-dollar baby. He checked twice; it was the only recognizable Russian name. Huh, a woman, he thought. Can that be right?

  Dominika Vasilyevna Egorova. Angevine memorized the name. Wonder if she’s hot. Not for long, after Zarubina gets the name.

  DRANIKI—POTATO PANCAKES WITH MUSHROOM SAUCE

  Grate peeled potatoes and onions, then add raw egg, salt, and flour to make a thick batter. Spoon a small dollop of batter into hot oil and fry until golden brown. Serve with mushroom sauce made by processing sautéed diced onions and mushrooms with sour cream and heavy cream. Simmer the processed puree (do not boil) with additional heavy cream and garnish with chopped parsley.

  36

  Nate and Benford sat alone in the secure conference room in the new Washington Field Office of the FBI in northwest Washington, DC. Benford had complained about having to drive downtown to Swampoodle, the long-forgotten name of the nearby nineteenth-century Irish shantytown razed to build Union Station. Benford further noted that the WFO relocation from gritty Buzzard Point on the Potomac was a requirement so that the FEEB cowboys would be closer to the Government Accountability Office, which was diagonally across G Street from the new field office.

  Benford had worked closely with the Bureau for years and disliked them generally, but he had a few close FEEBish friends, like Chief of Foreign Counterintelligence Division Charles Montgomery, with whom they were to meet. As they were waiting, an annoying, mustached special agent known to Benford stuck his head into the room.

  “The spooks are in the house,” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Benford looked at him with an expression of distaste. The FEEB had bushy hair and a mustache that looked like a basting brush.

  “McGaffin,” said Benford, “why aren’t you on a stakeout? Aren’t there still bank robbers roaming the capital?”

  “It’s under control,” said McGaffin. “What’re you guys doing down here?”

  Benford looked significantly at Nate.

  “There’s new intelligence from Moscow that the Center is running a mole inside the FBI and we have come to submit a request to the FISA court to review your personal Internet-use profile. I personally expect to find materials both puerile and prurient.”

  McGaffin shook his head, said, “Speak English,” and withdrew.

  Benford again looked meaningfully at Nate. “And perhaps you now understand my misgivings in comi
ng here to partner with these white-collar G-men,” said Benford.

  Nate shook his head. “We’ve got one shot to bust up Zarubina’s meeting and identify TRITON,” he said. “If these guys have an idea, we should listen.”

  Special agent Montgomery came into the room, walked around the table, and shook Benford’s and Nate’s hands. He was fifty, slim with premature white hair, half-frame glasses at the end of his nose, and gray cop’s eyes that missed nothing.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Montgomery, sitting on the other side of the conference table. “Still getting over jet lag. London conference went on forever.” He rubbed his face.

  “But at least there’s the British cuisine,” said Benford.

  “Yeah,” said Montgomery. “I’d never heard of haggis before. Scottish, not British. Ate a plate before our hosts in MI5 told me it was innards wrapped in sheep’s stomach. I’m serving Rocky Mountain oysters next time they come here.”

  “I always assumed testicles—whether bovine or other—were a favorite on the FBI cafeteria menu,” said Benford.

  “Simon, the Brits would call you a ‘prannock,’ ” said Montgomery, deadpan, opening a file folder. “That’s an objectionable person.”

  “May we proceed?” Benford said. Montgomery nodded. He was one of a few FBI officers who knew about the TRITON case.

  “Look, we’ve discussed this. Zarubina is meeting your boy sometime in the next seven days,” said Montgomery. “We’ve stayed off her butt at your request so she won’t see coverage and abort.” Montgomery had argued that the FCI surveillance team—called the Gs—could cover Zarubina without spooking her. “I still think we can take her,” said Montgomery.

  Nate shook his head. “Charles, we can’t take the chance. Your guys are good, but if Zarubina sees anything on the street, she aborts the meeting, and the Russians switch handlers to an anonymous illegals officer we’ll never be able to identify.”