The receptionist told her husband about this latest fruitcake over lunch of blanquette de veau, a silky, milk-white veal stew, at the nearby Brasserie Alaux on the Rue de la Faisanderie. The husband had heard the name Zarubina before, though he couldn’t recall what it had been about, except it had something to do with them upstairs. When dealing with them, it always paid to be careful. After lunch, the vice consul retrieved the fruitcake’s scrawled name and number from his wife’s notepad and went upstairs to the grilled day gate of the rezidentura and pressed the bell. There was no movement in the corridor for half a minute, then the sounds of footsteps. The clunky matron Zyuganova—it was whispered throughout the embassy that she had been a favorite of Andropov’s who had brought her with him from the KGB when he became general secretary of the Party—stood silently, looking at him through the screen. A real Bolshevik, this one, thought the young vice consul; not many of them left. In a brief sentence he explained what he was doing there, and handed her the scrap of paper through the mail slot.
“In case it is something important,” he said, bowing a little at the waist.
“Thank you, comrade,” said Zyuganova, with a face that betrayed nothing. Who is she calling comrade? thought the vice consul as he headed for the stairwell.
Zyuganova wrote the number in a steno pad, then took the original note to the rezident, who characteristically did not like discussing operational matters with this woman, this cast-iron Soviet throwback apparatchik—he had been saddled with her as zampolit, a political advisor from the Center—but he listened as she said the fruitcake visitor had mentioned Zarubina, and they had all heard about her death in Washington—gossip got around faster than intel reports—so it was probably important. Ekaterina Zyuganova smoothed her elaborate upswept hair last in style during the Khrushchev era, and argued that quick action was of the essence: The Paris rezidentura should attempt to contact this American and meet with him as soon as possible. She did not mention that she knew everything about TRITON and the mole hunt after talking to her son, nor did she raise the importance of all this to Alexei, who would be vindicated, exonerated, and restored if the American mole was identified.
The Paris rezident didn’t like any of it. He was thinking of his own equities, and was nervous about the counterintelligence pressures he had been feeling lately on the street from the DST, the French internal service. He saw danger signals everywhere: No one knew what had happened in Washington, whether it was a flap and an arrest, but when someone like Zarubina dies, it probably wasn’t good news. Now an unvetted madman miraculously appears in Paris, asking for contact with SVR. He wasn’t buying it; this probably was a trap—the Americans were aggressive, probably in league with the French. He smelled ambush, provocation, a dispatched double agent.
Zyuganova recognized the signs of timorous careerism in the rezident, sweating behind his desk, but she was determined to spur Yasenevo to action: If the Paris rezident would not act, they could at least send a telegram to Moscow, with the details of the fruitcake’s appearance, to let them decide. As a concession to her seniority and vestigial influence in Yasenevo, they drafted an urgent cable to the Center together. It might be as long as a day before Moscow responded. Zyuganova waited an hour, then called her son on the Vey-Che line and told him the whole story.
“I am coming to Paris,” Zyuganov said. He wanted TRITON’s Paris number.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Zyuganova snapped. “You have been instructed to remain at work. You may not travel.” She knew the perilous position sonny boy was in, and the importance—the necessity—of obeying orders and coming out of this affair in one piece. Survival in SVR was not easy: Ekaterina knew how the chudovishche, the monster, dormant under the surface, could, with terrifying speed, emerge and devour miscreants. During her forty years in the Service she had followed the rules and spouted the cant, out-Heroding Herod from her seats on the Collegium of the KGB, on the staff of the Central Committee, and in the office of the chairman of the Party.
So it was with a mixture of alarm and anger that Zyuganova greeted her son when he appeared at her apartment in the fashionable Parisian suburb of Neuilly a day later. He was ill-dressed in a cloth coat and baggy pants, and he was unshaven. His eyes had that certain glassiness the mother recognized as the augury of one of his Lubyanka moods, unpredictable and vicious. The Center had already sent an advisory to the rezidentura that Zyuganov was headed for Paris—he had departed from Vnukovo airport with his civilian passport, violating the restrictions of the ongoing investigation set by SVR inspectors. The Center instructed the Paris rezidentura to escort Zyuganov—if he appeared at the embassy—immediately to the airport and put him on the next flight back to Moscow. He wasn’t officially a fugitive, but unless he returned immediately, Zyuganova knew, he would be ruined, whatever the outcome with TRITON. She resolved to save her son by turning him in.
Zyuganov was no longer thinking clearly, much less rationally. He was aware only of an animal need to uncover the name of the mole, and if skipping out of the country against orders and dangerously flitting into a possible American intelligence ambush was the only way to do it, then that is what he was going to do. His mother stood in the middle of her tasteful apartment speaking to him with that Central Committee tone of voice that, depending on the point she wanted to make and the height of her emotion, varied from a steely monotone to a full-throated bellow. She was bellowing at him now, furious at his stupidity, furious that her forty-something-year-old son had disobeyed her, had disobeyed the State. Govniuk! Shit for brains.
Ekaterina walked to the side table in the living room and picked up the telephone. Security from the nearby embassy on the other side of the Bois would be here in two minutes, to escort her son back home, stuffed in a wicker laundry basket if necessary. She identified herself to the telephone operator and asked to be transferred to the rezident. That’s the last thing she remembered clearly. Zyuganov came up behind his mother, swung his fist, and hit her on the side of the neck. She groaned, dropped the telephone, and fell to the parquet floor. Shaking her head, she looked up and saw what countless prisoners in the cellars had seen—the freezing glower of a butcher at midnight—but what no mother wants to see reflected in the face of her mal’chik, her baby boy. Zyuganov ripped the phone out of the wall.
Ekaterina heaved herself to her feet and staggered into her bedroom holding her neck—another telephone was on the night table. Zyuganov was behind her and pushed her violently onto the bed. Ekaterina screamed at him, called his name, tried to break through the psychotic tantrum that blazed in his eyes. Her diminutive son leaped on her and his fingers brushed across a garment in plastic fresh from the teinturier, the dry cleaner, and he wrapped the billowing film around her head, once, twice, and strained it tight under her chin. Zyuganov’s tooth-baring grimace was inches from his mother’s face, and he watched her eyes go wide, and her open mouth sucked in plastic, and her head shook side to side, desperately trying to get oxygen. He pressed down on top of her and held on tight until her heaving slowed, her legs stopped kicking, and the familiar shudder—well known to Zyuganov—passed through her, and she stared at him through her shroud. He rolled off her, then went through her pockets. Too easy: He had TRITON’s phone number. He knew he had to get out of the apartment immediately. He rummaged in drawers on his hurried way out.
As he walked away from the building, Zyuganov saw a Russian Embassy Peugeot pull up—the diplomatic plates on the car and the bullet heads of the occupants were unmistakable. They’d find his mother, but they could not positively connect him to that. The French police would want to question him. But it wouldn’t matter, he told himself irrationally. He would return triumphant to Moscow with proof that Egorova was in the pay of CIA, and he would be vindicated, congratulated, promoted. Wild thoughts of bringing TRITON back with him—a gift for Putin’s trophy wall—caromed in his head.
Zyuganov walked quickly past the shops and apartment buildings along Rue de Longchamp to the Po
nt de Neuilly metro and cleared the area. As he rode rocking into the center of Paris—he planned to call TRITON from one of the phone-card-operated booths in the Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussmann—his distracted mind skipped over the vinyl long-play record of his memory. Events had come in a rush: The traitor Solovyov had disappeared; Egorova was a guest of Putin; the Washington meeting with TRITON had imploded; Zarubina was dead; TRITON appeared in Paris, asking for contact; his mother had called; he had come to Paris; and he had resolved outstanding issues with her. By tonight he would be talking to TRITON, and could return to Moscow triumphant. Troubles with Putin would evaporate, and recriminations involving Yevgeny would fade away.
What he didn’t know was that the president of the Russian Federation had his own timetable.
BLANQUETTE DE VEAU
Boil peeled pearl onions and sliced mushrooms in water and butter until glossy and soft. Cover cubed veal, rough-cut onions, carrots, celery, and bouquet garni with water, bring to a boil, then simmer until the veal is fork-tender. Strain the meat, reserve the broth, and discard the vegetables and bouquet. Make a roux, incorporate the broth, and boil until the sauce thickens. Add pearl onions, mushrooms, cream, salt, pepper, and veal, and continue simmering. Temper egg yolks and whisk into the stew, but do not boil. Add lemon juice and serve with potato puree or white rice.
41
Dominika was free of the grimy-necked court of oligarchs at Strelna, free of the sucking noises as brittle-haired women cleaned their teeth after dinner with silver toothpicks, free of midnight caresses by her pajama-clad president. She landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport on the first morning flight from Saint Petersburg and called CIA’s SENTRY number, repeating her designator and telling the operator she was in Paris, the name of her hotel, and her newly purchased cell-phone number. It usually took Nate forty-eight hours to get there.
The last time Dominika stayed at the Hotel Jeanne d’Arc in the Marais she had been dragged to the cobbles and kicked by a long-haired voyou, a thug in a leather jacket, sent by Zyuganov to damage her. Dominika remembered the flat click of her lipstick gun as she put an expanding bullet into the chest of the second black-jack-wielding attacker. Now she had two such single-shot electric pistols in her purse—the only weapons she could travel with on such short notice—with real lip gloss inside each. One Russian red, the other nude pink. One for TRITON, the other for Zyuganov.
So now Dominika the Sparrow becomes Dominika the assassin, Vladimir’s whore killer. This is totally perverted, she thought, looking at the malevolent little tubes on the hotel bed, the infernal instruments of her Service. She had killed men before, to save Nate and Gable, but this was different. Would Zyuganov be armed, traveling as he had, on the run? As much as she despised him, as much as he wanted to destroy her, could she press the lipstick tube against his temple and press the button? Could she contrive to walk past TRITON on the street, let him go by, then pivot and shoot him in the back of the head? She thought the answer was yes, she would kill to protect herself or Nate. She would be destroying everything she hated. But at what cost?
The rage against the siloviki, the bosses, against her Service, and against the blue-eyed judo man with the rolling gait, sustained her. Was her soul worth the spectacular access she would gain for her friends at CIA? Would Nate—wry, clever, passionate Nate—tell her nothing was worth losing her soul, not all the secrets in the world. Would he?
Udranka was in the corner of the room looking out the window. Why don’t you ask him? she said.
There was a soft knock at the door. Dominika went to the door, slipped the chain, and opened it, keeping a lipstick down by her side. Nathaniel stood there, dressed in a light outer coat, collar up, hands in his pockets. His purple halo filled the corridor, then rushed into her room, swirling around her. He smiled at her, then noticed the lipstick in her hand.
“Is that what I think it is? Didn’t the chambermaid bring enough towels?” Nate whispered in Russian. Dominika shook her head.
“Parshiviy, jackass, I was just thinking about you,” said Dominika. She pulled him inside, closed the door, and tossed the lipstick onto the bed. She threw her arms around his neck and they kissed; her head swam with the feel of his lips, with the feel of his arms around her. They parted and looked silently at each other, then Nate put his hands in her hair and brought their mouths together again. Dominika pulled away.
“Stop for a minute. I want to tell you Hannah saved my life the night she died,” said Dominika, blinking quickly to stop her welling eyes.
“I think I know,” said Nate.
“She led surveillance away from me; I was a hundred meters away,” said Dominika. “They got excited and hit her with a car, probably by accident.”
“I went to the funeral in New Hampshire,” said Nate. “The family was devastated.” His eyes were shiny too. They looked at each other, and she telegraphed “I know about her” and he telegraphed back “I’m sorry” and they didn’t say any more about it, for Hannah’s sake.
“How did you get here so quickly?” Dominika asked.
“We knew Angevine was heading here the night he escaped. Gable and I have been in Paris for two days,” said Nate. “Benford arrived last night. We’re tearing the town apart. We’ve been sending SRAC messages to you nonstop.”
“After delivering the general at the beach, I was stuck at Strelna. Is he safe?”
“A pain in the ass, but safe,” said Nate. “Benford was seriously exercised that you disregarded instructions not to use the exfil plan. Now you have no contingency available.”
Dominika shrugged. “Who’s Angevine?” she said.
“TRITON to you,” said Nate.
“I have TRITON’s local cell-phone number, the one he gave the embassy,” said Dominika quickly, remembering. “They gave it to me before I left Strelna.” Nate immediately called it in to Gable, who was working on phone and name traces at the US Embassy.
“I am going to call his number, play a Russian from the Center, to try to get him to meet me,” said Dominika.
Nate brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “To do what?” he asked, smiling. “Take him into custody?”
Dominika waited for him to stop fiddling with her hair. “No. To kill him.” Nate stopped what he was doing. “And then I’m going to kill Zyuganov. He arrived here sometime last night.”
Nate took her hands in his. “That’s all a little ambitious, don’t you think?”
“Do you think so?” said Dominika, taking her hands away. “Putin’s orders.” She briefly explained everything, including Putin’s midnight visit to her room, his instructions to her, and his promise to promote her. Nate’s halo flared and Dominika suppressed a smile.
“He had his hand underneath your nightgown?” said Nate.
“Do not tell me you’re revnivyy,” said Dominika. She put a hand on his arm. “Dushka, you are attractive when you are jealous.”
An hour after arriving in Paris, Nate and Gable stood in Chief of Station’s Gordon Gondorf’s office. Gondorf’s deputy, a long-suffering senior case officer named Ebersole, stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. He knew Gable slightly from an Asian tour. Nate saw Gable shake hands and slap his back, Gable-code that he liked and approved of this officer. Gable’s planet had two moons: He either approved of you or thought you were an ignoramus.
The chief was another matter. Nate had not seen Gordon Gondorf since Moscow, when Nate had been monstrously, unfairly, summarily sent home short-of-tour by his vindictive chief. Gondorf (universally known as Gondork) was perpetually in a state of hysteric professional trepidation. Everyone—superiors, subordinates, fellow chiefs of Station, host-country liaison officers—to Gondorf represented trouble, a potential rival who he knew, just knew, sooner or later would derail the shrill locomotive of his career.
He was short with a whippet’s face and carefully combed thinning hair. He had gnawed cuticles, M&M eyes set too close together, and little feet chara
cteristically shod in strange, high-sided loafers that officers in his Station called “pilgrim shoes.” Typically, Gondorf was unaware of anything his officers thought, said, or did. More representative of Gondorf’s virtuosity as COS was a large poster on his office wall of a kitten hanging by its forefeet from a branch with “Hang in There, Baby!” in large letters along the top.
Seeing him again, Nate remembered hearing how Gondorf had extirpated the entire South America Division with mismanagement, miscalculation, and neglect. He was infamous within the division for issuing preposterous edicts—Gondorf’s Twelve Rules—regulating the conduct of Stations and chiefs to ensure there were no troubles, flaps, or scandals and, sadly by extension, no operational successes. After that divisional tour de force, Gondorf should have been locked head and wrists in a pillory and put on display in the Memorial Garden in front of the Headquarters building as was his due, but instead, in the inimitable custom of the Office of Personnel’s senior-assignments staff, he was assigned as COS to prestigious Paris Station to keep him out of Washington (and derivatively to inflict him upon the French, who were finicky and obstreperous).
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