The familiar drumming of the Kremlin cobblestones filled the cloying rosewater-scented Mercedes as it sped through the crenelated tower of the Borovitskaya Gate. How many times would she hear the tires moan over these stones, the harmonic preparation before Putin’s next symphony? The car careered around the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, and past the Tsarsky Kolokol, the two-hundred-ton cracked Tsar’s Bell, never rung, never pealed, a metaphor for Putin’s regime. They traversed Ivanovskaya Square, the paved maidan guarded by the Tsarsky Pushka, the Tsar’s Imperial Cannon, an immense cast-bronze bombard never fired in war, and through the narrow Senate building gate. In the circular courtyard, dark-suited attendants waited on the front steps. In another age, they would have been dressed in strawberry pink imperial livery with pinchbeck buttons and powdered wigs.
Bathed in the pale yellow of sycophancy, the three aides—this many factotums was a notable indication of her status—led Dominika through the circular domed Catherine Hall, its colonnade rich with gilt Corinthian capitals, along endless corridors with the reflected light of a hundred crystal chandeliers, and down a final hallway with a frescoed vaulted ceiling alive with angels, cherubs, and seraphs. (What must they have seen and heard since 1917? The private apartments of both Lenin and Stalin were on this third floor.) They stopped at an inconspicuous and unadorned wooden alcove. An aide knocked softly once, opened the door, and minutely inclined his head toward Dominika. Putin’s office was wood paneled and narrow, an unprepossessing desk against the far wall. The president was standing behind the desk turning the pages of a file. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and red necktie. He looked up when Dominika came into the room, and wordlessly gestured that she should sit at the small table in front of the desk. She sat with her hands in her lap. The simple travel dress she had worn on the plane was barely appropriate for the Kremlin, but Dominika resolved not to care. Gorelikov was not present—that was strange—and her spine tingled. Without speaking, he sat opposite her and rested his hands on the table. His blue aura—intelligence, guile, calculation—was strong and bright.
Did he expect her to speak first? Did her performance as CI sleuth in Istanbul somehow raise suspicions? This is what Stalin used to do: summon terrified subordinates and stare at them. At least it wasn’t three a.m. in a superheated dacha.
“What happened in Istanbul?” Putin said, without preamble. I met with my CIA handler and besides dictating fourteen intelligence reports on current compartmented SVR operations, alerted Langley to the Turkish active-measures initiative designed to neuter a Western ally and abet your unholy regime. My CIA handler and I also made love after I danced naked for him in the grand salon of a Bosphorus mansion.
“Major Shlykov is a galloping egotist, whom the Americans suborned with emoluments that have yet to be determined,” said Dominika without inflection. “Line KR investigators will extract the truth soon.” She held Putin’s gaze.
“Leave it,” said Putin, waving a hand in the air. “Shlykov committed suicide in his cell last night.” Suicide? Not likely; he loved himself too much, thought Dominika. Sleep tight you bastard, you were going to blow up children in Istanbul.
She kept her face impassive, but felt the refrigerator chill of the president’s eyes. “Unfortunate,” said Dominika. “There never was any doubt of his guilt.” There was no way Putin would advertise a covert-action failure with a noisy public trial, she thought. Shlykov was doomed from the start. Dying secretly and unmourned in prison was a common fate of miscreants since the days of the Bolsheviks.
“I congratulate you again, Colonel; your diligence and energy are exemplary,” said Putin. “You’re becoming quite the mole catcher.”
Dominika willed herself to be still. “Spasibo, Mr. President,” thank you, said Dominika, and kept quiet after that. She read this man closely, watched his colored aura. He did not value fawning, talkative sycophants—he looked for efficiency, discretion, and loyalty.
“Once again, the Americans intrude,” said Putin. “Istanbul was a debacle.” Dominika again suppressed laughter. You have no idea zolotse, nugget, thought DIVA.
“They wish to isolate Russia in the mirovaya zakulisa, the world backstage,” he said. There it was, Putin’s favorite domestic trope—the conspiracy of Western leaders against Russia—to stoke nationalism and distract attention from food shortages in the cities. Never mind that Putin’s terror plot was defeated. Never mind that her dear president’s estimated personal net worth from plundered national coffers was $100 billion.
“A momentous opportunity exists to unseat America,” said Putin. “I wish you to become involved in our plans.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika. Is he going to mention MAGNIT?
“I want you to work with Gorelikov on the case.”
“This case is the one managed by Shlykov and the GRU?” asked Dominika.
The president gave her a vinegar smile, and shook his head. “The case, it belongs to me,” Putin said. His cerulean halo pulsed with the unspoken ancillary thought that Dominika could read plain as day: And so do you.
* * *
* * *
Gorelikov was eating lunch, waiting for her in his office, visibly apprehensive at not being invited to the private meeting between the president and Dominika. A lunch cart was beside his desk. His simmering blue halo suggested he was nervous lest Putin think he and Egorova colluded to undermine Shlykov and his operation.
Mindful of the Kremlin chandeliers that hear every conversation, Dominika reassured him discreetly. “The president complimented me on a counterintelligence coup,” she said knowingly. Gorelikov’s face relaxed. He pushed a plate of golden Crimean carrot fritters toward her, slathering one with yogurt sauce for her.
“You heard about Major Shlykov?” he asked.
“Suicide in his cell?” said Dominika.
Gorelikov leaned toward her, whispering. “His loyal aide Blokhin was given the opportunity to atone for being detained by the Turks and pitched by the Americans. Apparently quite a disgrace among the Spetsnaz groups.”
“Blokhin killed him?” Nate had told her about pitching Blokhin in a Turkish police station. The brute must have been humiliated.
“The traditional bullet behind the ear,” whispered Gorelikov. “We find it useful to retain some of the old traditions. Shlykov’s nerves deserted him at the last minute. They stuffed a rag in his mouth to stop his screams—like Yehzov in 1940 and Beria in ’53—nothing’s really changed from the charming early days of the Revolution.”
“Loyalty for superiors runs deep in GRU, obviously,” said Dominika.
“Blokhin is a maniac. But with Shlykov’s demise I believe the Istanbul covert action will be forgotten. FSB Chief Bortnikov likewise is pleased. He told the president he admired the way you wrapped up the matter.” Don’t thank me, thank the Americans, she thought. “Another carrot fritter?” said Gorelikov, holding it out to her, like feeding time at the petting zoo. Executions in basements and yogurt-smothered carrot fritters. Today’s Russia.
Gorelikov picked up a file folder. “We have spoken about this before, but I would like you to set aside a few hours to meet the new MSS representative to Moscow, three-star General Sun Jianguo, of Chinese State Security,” Gorelikov said. “Reports directly to the Minister of State Security in the State Council in Beijing. He speaks excellent English, from a previous posting to London. Beijing recently initiated contact, discreetly, claiming they want to improve and expand cooperation with Moscow, and the relationship between security services is a place to start. General Sun arrived last week to assume his duties.”
“After the glavnyy protvnik, the Main Enemy, these Chinese termity, these termites, are the biggest threat to the Rodina in the future,” continued Gorelikov, looking sideways at Dominika. “You know counterintelligence, you have winning ways, so see what this rice-eater has to say, what he has under his tongue. The president wants to know how we can benefit.” Winning ways, thought Dominika. I’m sure you’re
referring to my ops skills.
“Do you think he is susceptible?” asked Dominika.
“If he has predilections, they will become apparent in time,” said Gorelikov, casually. “Men, women, children. Spirits, drugs, gambling. Tasting pain, or inflicting it, we’ll know soon enough.” Dominika smiled knowingly, hiding her contempt. My Rodina, land of black earth and fragrant pines, my country, transformed by you heroes into a back-alley clearing house of vice.
“Even as we watch the dragon carefully,” said Gorelikov, “China may be useful in depleting US influence on a second front.” He bent to prepare another fritter for Dominika, but she held up a polite hand in refusal.
“China could be very useful,” said Gorelikov, counting on his fingers. “Alternate petroleum markets, military-equipment sales, cyber operations against American infrastructure, a tangible challenge to US naval hegemony in the Pacific. A cooperative allegiance with Beijing could potentially be of great benefit. Naturally you will assess the feasibility of intelligence operations against these Maoists here, in Beijing, and in Hong Kong.”
“I will run traces on General Sun. Perhaps something useful will appear.”
Gorelikov shook his head. “We’re doing this on our own, you and I; let’s see where this takes us.” Dominika realized that she was becoming Putin’s personal operational fixer. Another success—with Chinese liaison for instance—would almost certainly win her the Directorship of SVR.
She took another swing at MAGNIT. “The president mentioned Shlykov’s sensitive case. What is the status of that?”
Gorelikov smiled. “All in good time,” he said. There may not be time to wait before your damned mole reads my name, Dominika thought.
* * *
* * *
Dominika met the MSS general for lunch at the White Rabbit, the internationally acclaimed restaurant on the rooftop sixteenth floor of the Smolensk Passage Building in the Arbat, on Smolenskaya Square, the long dining room completely under a curved glass roof with breathtaking views of the Moskva River and Stalin’s looming Gothic Ministry of Foreign Affairs skyscraper. The restaurant interior was a dreamland of extravagant artwork hung every which way, brightly colored couches, and a neon-lit bar, all under the scudding afternoon clouds of early summer. Dominika chose a dark chalk-stripe suit, with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, dark stockings, and black flats. No cleavage or come-fuck-me heels today.
She was already seated at a choice corner table for five at the end of the room, against the downward sweep of the clear canopy, when General Sun appeared by the maître d’ station. He was accompanied by a tall young man who scanned the room, leaned to whisper in the general’s ear, and pointed at Dominika. Bodyguard. Sun came down the two steps and made his way alone across the dining room between the tables. The young man remained at the entrance, never taking his eyes off the general.
General Sun was short and stout, in his sixties, with a smooth flat face and jet-black hair, no doubt dyed. Rheumy black eyes under upward-arching eyebrows gave him a perpetual quizzical look, as if he were struggling to understand what was being said to him. There was a canary-yellow halo around his head, signaling deceit, calculation, disingenuousness.
He stood at the table and bowed slightly, then offered his hand in a mild fleeting handshake. He was dressed in a pearl-gray suit with a starched white shirt and a muted striped tie. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” said Sun, in heavily accented English. He sat across the table from her, unrolled his spotless linen napkin, and put it on his lap. At the academy they would have recommended he take the seat next to her, to establish a connection, to position himself inside her space, but that’s what aggressive SVR Russians would do. Cautious and introverted Chinese officials, in full defensive mode in the Russian capital, would be different. In contrast, Dominika knew Nate would scoot his chair close so their knees were touching, and drape his arm across the back of her chair. But what else could you expect from nekulturny Americans? Nate intruding into her thoughts again.
“Are you enjoying Moscow, General?” said Dominika. “Are you in your apartment?” She knew all Chinese Embassy diplomats had strict rules and were forced to live kak seledka v bochke, packed like herrings in the barrel, in prefab high-rises on the embassy’s five-acre walled compound on Druzhby Street, near Moscow State University.
“I am fortunate to have been assigned a comfortable flat in a large building on Minskaya Ulitsa, in the diplomatic quarter, not far from the embassy. I can walk when the weather permits,” said General Sun. “My assistant and a housekeeper live with me.” Interesting. He’s allowed to live off compound, very unusual. Staying loose to be able to operate in Moscow? Living apart also means we can get to him, if we eventually see an opening. Welcome to Moscow! Your comely neighbor lady might need to borrow a cup of Sparrow sugar some evening.
“I trust that soon we can host you at Headquarters in Yasenevo,” said Dominika.
“Delighted,” said General Sun, reserved.
“I understand your service is interested in expanding cooperation,” said Dominika.
“Most assuredly,” said Sun. “My organization—I apologize for the long title—the Zhonghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guójia Anquánbù, the Ministry of State Security, is especially interested in your service’s recognized expertise in counterintelligence. As you are chief of that department, we wish to learn from you.” He bowed from his seat. Was the MSS worried about a specific CI problem? She knew SVR officers in the Beijing rezidentura were trolling for elusive Chinese contacts, but Dominika was not aware of any major SVR operations currently running against China. Maybe her CIA colleagues were causing trouble.
This is good, really good, she thought. Dominika could exploit this liaison relationship on three levels: she would elicit MSS counterintelligence philosophy and techniques; she could pass dezinformatsiya, disinformation, to Beijing about Russian intentions toward China (Gorelikov would like that); and she would report it all to Benford and Nate. General Sun seemed mild and polite, but her instincts told her—like with Gorelikov—not to underestimate him.
* * *
* * *
Benford sat at a conference table in Headquarters with Tom Forsyth, Nate Nash, and Lucius Westfall. Coffee cups, files, folders, and pads of paper literally covered the table. The empty chair at the end of the small table reminded them of Gable, and they felt his presence in the room. They wished he were with them, for this was a desperate gathering. A mole hunt. At Benford’s behest, Westfall and Nash had cautiously researched the backgrounds, without approvals from the office of the Acting Director, of the three candidates for the new Director, a violation of at least a dozen Agency regulations, if not a handful of federal ones. They were all complicit by their presence in this room.
“We screened for three criteria,” said Westfall. “Substantive access to the US Navy railgun program; continuing access of interest to the Russians for approximately the last five years; and the last category, which is subjective, vulnerability, motivation, inclination—you’ll have to decide yourselves.”
“Why five years?” said Benford. “DIVA reported that MAGNIT’s been in harness for at least twelve years.”
Westfall swallowed. “We figured if we identify five years of access, we get an indication. Besides, MAGNIT may have been dormant or on ice for a couple of years.”
Benford nodded. “As you report on your findings, and if it does not tax your millennial intellects, remember we are looking as hard for reasons to exclude any one of the three as a suspect, as we are for incriminating evidence. The Russians cannot be running all three of them. And we don’t have much time.”
“Okay, Senator Feigenbaum’s been on the intelligence and armed services committees for twenty years,” said Westfall. “She voted to fund the railgun through the development process and can request any information from the navy anytime she wants.”
“Motivation?” said Forsyth. “She’s a US senator for Christ sakes.”
“Deba
table,” said Nate. “She’s traveled a lot overseas all her career, including lots of contacts with the Soviets. Maybe she’s retiring soon, wants a cabinet job. We thought maybe she’s building a nest egg.”
“But we found out she doesn’t need a nest egg,” said Westfall. “We did a full financial dive on all the candidates. The senator has thirty million dollars in the bank and in real estate.”
“Don’t discount the amassing of title and power,” said Benford. “It’s what makes the whole Congress tick. The ultimate aphrodisiac among a large herd of narcissists.”
“We know the senator hates CIA’s guts,” said Westfall.
“Maybe the Kremlin is paying her to bring down the Agency,” said Benford. “She’d like to do that, her and her butt boy Farbissen.” Forsyth didn’t buy it, but motioned Westfall to continue.
“Next we have Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland. She’s actually been running the railgun project since it started. Now she’s running all the navy labs with science and weapons and stealth stuff the Russians would love to steal.”
“Motivation?” asked Nate.
“She’s the cleanest of the bunch,” said Westfall. “Third star, medals, physics brain, poster girl for the navy. She stays at home too. No time at all with the fleet at sea. Military pension when she retires.”
“Hobbies? Vices? Habits? Addictions? Vulnerabilities?” asked Forsyth, the case officer, looking for a handle.
Westfall shook his head. “Nothing except the china doll heads,” he said.
“What in God’s name is that?” said Forsyth.
“The admiral is a major collector. She’s even mentioned on some websites.”
“Marvelous,” said Benford, “but what are they? Tell me they’re from Russia perhaps?”
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