The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  Both women moved simultaneously, instinctively. Agnes lunged forward and hit Gorelikov extremely hard with a hammer fist on the side of the neck beneath the ear, overloading the vagus nerve, disrupting heart-rate and blood-pressure signals to the brain, and causing him to wobble and go down on one knee. Without thinking, Dominika circled behind him, and with nothing else at hand, unclasped the president’s South Sea pearls and wound the strand around Anton’s neck in the counterclockwise Sicilian garrotter’s loop, which puts the hands behind the target pushing crosswise—exerting a more powerful constriction than pulling the hands wide apart—a technique taught during Spetsnaz Systema training. Gorelikov started struggling, fell back to the floor, reaching behind his head, scrabbling for Dominika’s eyes, until Agnes flung herself at him, held his wrists, then lay across Gorelikov’s legs so he couldn’t kick. He was thin and light and Agnes controlled him easily. Through his increasingly constricted throat he repeatedly rasped, “Don’t!”

  Dominika expected the necklace strand to break, scattering the priceless pearls across the terrazzo, but whatever had been used to string them together must have been unbreakable, wire or monofilament rather than the traditional silk thread, and her vision tunneled as she went a little crazy, leaned back, put her knee behind his neck, and kept applying torque. At least the big pearls were easy to grasp, and the frail Gorelikov was not exceptionally strong. As she strangled him, she heard herself whispering to Anton that Russia was not the Kremlin’s private preserve, that the Rodina belonged to the Russians, not the jackals who fed on the carcass, which struck her as sounding like an early manifesto of Lenin’s, but she was out of her mind with panicked bloodlust. She didn’t know if he heard her over his air-starved grunts. As she whispered to him, Agnes looked at her openmouthed.

  Agnes held Anton’s wrists and rode out the last paroxysm of his thrashing legs, and he was still, but they didn’t move for another five minutes, tense. They knew he was gone when his trousers showed wet and a pool of urine spread on the floor under him. Agnes was soaked too, but didn’t say a word as she got to her feet, with wild hair. They both looked at Gorelikov, both panting like murderous ancient queens, Clytemnestra and Electra contemplating crimson bathwater. Dominika saw that Agnes’s halo was bleached and faded. Anton’s corpse was wet from waist to knee, his eyes were open, his neck was bruised purple, and his halo was gone. Interesting. Dominika wondered if she eventually would feel remorse—Gorelikov had, after all, befriended and supported her in the Kremlin—for she felt none now. The elegant boulevardier would have had her executed without hesitation.

  Dominika fastened the still-warm pearls back around her neck; they were heavy and slick against her skin. They’d never feel the same again, and she’d always have to contend with Anton’s ghost when she wore them. “Are you ready to take a cruise with Monsieur CHALICE?” she asked Agnes. “He’s decided to defect.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’re going to put me in that canoe with Putin’s closest adviser, and strap me in with him to bounce around for thirty minutes?” said Agnes.

  “With the president’s closest dead adviser,” said Dominika. “His disappearance will prove he was the mole, a devastating scandal for the Kremlin and for the president personally.”

  “Gorelikov becomes CHALICE? The most-trusted man in Putin’s Russia turns out to be the mole who defects? They’ll never believe it,” said Agnes.

  “Posle dozhdika v chetverg, we’ll see after the rain on Thursday; we have no idea what will happen. It’s the only evidence they’ll have, and you’ll be gone too, the second CIA operative we all missed when we obsessed over Nate,” said Dominika. “Final confirmation of Gorelikov as the mole will come when Benford arrests MAGNIT.” She ran upstairs to whip the used sheet off the bed and raced back down to the living room to swaddle Gorelikov in the sheet, a burial shroud smelling of Putin’s cologne.

  “How are we going to carry him down that steep path to the beach?” said Agnes.

  “We each grab one end and drag him down,” said Dominika, gathering one end of the sheet and lifting.

  “This is insane.”

  “Insane? Now is the time for vera, for faith, and unshakable resolve, which I suspect you know very well.”

  Agnes nodded. “Wiernosc in Polish.”

  Dominika nodded. “Take his wristwatch off. It’s one of those fancy Swiss models, worth thousands. Keep it, it’s yours, compliments of the Kremlin. Consider it reimbursement for this crazy mission. They never should have sent you. It was an insane risk.”

  “Nate came to rescue you and I came to help Nate,” said Agnes. “So I suppose all of us have lost.”

  “We have not lost,” said Dominika. “But now it’s time to end this. This is defeat for Them. They sleep in their beds just up the hill, in the main house, while we will be swallowing seawater for Gable, for a white-haired general and two young Sparrows who gave their lives.” She looked at her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the boat is due, and Anton takes his last Black Sea pleasure cruise. Grab the sheet and help me lift him.”

  MOUSSELINE SAUCE

  Make the sabayon by gently whisking cold water slowly into egg yolks, until triple in volume. Whisk sabayon, slowly adding warm clarified butter until sauce is smooth and glossy. Incorporate lemon juice, salt, and cayenne and continue stirring. Gently fold in whipped cream that has been whisked into firm peaks. Serve immediately.

  37

  Black Sea Cruise

  They dropped Gorelikov’s shrouded body twice as they stumbled down the shale goat path to the beach, once just catching him before he rolled off the pathway onto the rocks thirty meters below. The night land breeze came off the face of the cliff and created a small chop on the water, which broke among the many rocks protruding from the sandy bottom. Could an unmanned vessel be preprogrammed to weave between these outcrops, to run aground gently on this small patch of wet packed sand, and to weave its way out again? Dominika and Agnes took turns wearing the infrared glasses that would pick up the invisible beacon from the bow strobe on the USV, and Dominika wore the beacon wristwatch. They thought they could hear some of the sounds of the late-night party high above them, beyond the face of the cliff. As they waited silently, listening for the clump of sentries’ boots, the land breeze increased, and the waves turned from small chuckling wavelets to noisier three-foot breakers that hit some of the protruding rocks and gurgled over them, occasionally throwing a little spume into the air. Choppy, but not impossible. Dominika periodically looked back at the shrouded form of Gorelikov lying on the sand beyond the reach of the waves—she fully expected him to sit up and start talking—and wondered first, how the boat could get close enough to them in the surf, and second, how they could possibly load his limp body onto the deck of the USV that had a significant freeboard.

  At precisely midnight by Dominika’s watch, she saw an intermittent flashing blue light on the horizon. As the minutes went by the light grew brighter and the indistinct shape of a low-slung speedboat with what looked like zebra stripes along its sides and a small white bow wave in its teeth became visible. The shape of the vessel materialized, disappeared, and reappeared as it approached, sliding into the troughs of the waves, and then climbing back out. As it entered the rock field, the boat slowed and, as if driven by a coxswain, slowly made its way around or between the rocks until the rounded bow slid to a stop on the sand right at their feet. The boarding footholds were at the stern of the USV, but the surf was banging the hull back there. Dominika could hear the propulsion jets of the vessel trying to hold the hull straight and to counteract the effects of the waves. Making her way to the aft accommodation ladder, Agnes was soused to the neck by a breaker, then knocked off the second foothold back into the water, completely drenching her, the second time tonight she was soaked. Finally she was able to scramble up the three footholds and balance herself on the deck of the USV. Dominika reached up and gave her the bag that contained the condom-wrapped thumb dr
ive, the infrared glasses, the beacon watch, and Gorelikov’s expensive Swiss wristwatch.

  The double coffin-lid hatch automatically opened and Agnes looked inside, then back to Dominika, who was in thigh-high water, and gave a thumbs-up. Dominika stayed away from the stern of the boat being pounded regularly by the surf, causing loud slapping booms that would sooner or later attract sentries. Now came the hard part. Dominika went over to the wrapped body of Gorelikov, sat him up, put her shoulder into his stomach, and with a grunt, picked him up like a sack of flour. She waded back into the water and tried to boost him high enough so Agnes could reach down, grab a sheet corner, and haul him aboard. It was impossible with the sloshing water and the bucking hull, but Dominika boosted him by his legs and, miraculously, Agnes was able to grab the top edge of the sheet and pull with all her might. The corpse slid up over the gunwale and onto the deck of the vessel. Dominika walked back on the beach and waited; watching as Agnes slid, rolled, and finally dumped Gorelikov’s corpse down the hatchway. Once below, she would have to pick him up and put him on one of the reclining seats, strap him in, then strap herself in, and flip the switches that would close the hatch and initiate the programmed course back to the waiting US Navy frigate twenty miles offshore. Before Agnes disappeared down the hatch she looked at Dominika in the moonlight and waved. The thought occurred to Dominika that Nathaniel Nash was very lucky that such a woman loved him, that they both loved him.

  The tone of the jet nozzles grew louder as the USV backed off the beach, the surf still smacking the transom as it moved away. Then a grinding bump as the stern collided with a flat rock protruding above the surface and the vessel stopped dead. From the foam around the stern, Dominika could see that the USV was trying to go forward and backward to free itself from the invisible obstruction, but it kept bumping into the outcrop and could proceed no farther. Cursing, Dominika waded in up to her chest, was swallowed by a breaker, and then managed to swim to the hung-up hull and push the bucking stern with all her might. She finally got a lift from a wave, and heard the transom grind against the rock and float free. Another wave slapped her under, but the jets pulsed in reverse and the zebra-striped boat silently backed out of the rock field into open water. Another wave hit Dominika and she swallowed some seawater and retched, but recovered enough to see the USV spin in her own length, settle by the stern, and pick up speed, headed out to sea. She paused briefly to squat in the shallows. Seawater should do the same job as vinegar and baking powder. There was some satisfaction in consigning the president’s DNA to the Black Sea. Dominika struggled to the beach, her clothes streaming with water (she’d win the wet T-shirt contest at the party tonight), and looked back seaward. The stealth vessel had already disappeared from sight. Good luck, Agnes Krawcyk. Don’t fail me.

  Shivering, Dominika staggered up the goat path to her dacha, shucked off her clothes, collected the champagne glasses, and mopped up Gorelikov’s mess from the marble. She then stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, too tired to mind the inevitable nightmare image of Grace Gao hanging by her neck from the glass shower door.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was noon before anyone noticed that Gorelikov was missing. Bortnikov ordered a massive search of the compound, and had spotter planes and fast motor-patrol boats from Sevastopol comb the coast in case Gorelikov somehow had fallen off the cliff into the sea. After an informal roll call it was additionally noticed that Agnes Krawcyk, one of the art-restoration workers, was also unaccounted for. Bortnikov and Dominika met in the compound’s security-control building’s conference room, to discuss how they would brief the president on these disturbing developments. There was no record at Gelendzhik Airport of either individual boarding a plane and all compound vehicles were accounted for—they had simply disappeared into thin air. Bortnikov remembered that MAGNIT had reported part of an exfiltration plan involving a powered stealth glider that could land in the Balaklava Valley undetected, but there was no way Gorelikov or the woman could have exited the compound unnoticed and walked the ten kilometers at night, on country roads, to reach an exfiltration pickup point. Frustrated and furious, Bortnikov ordered a second complete search of every structure in the compound, including the presidential wing and the president’s own private apartments. Nikolai Patrushev deigned to attend the last meeting with Bortnikov and Dominika at the end of the day. Despite the cataclysmic possibilities, Patrushev’s conniving yellow halo was steady and unperturbed. He’s already chosen a scapegoat, thought Dominika. He’ll assume none of the blame.

  “The Polish woman is of no importance,” said Patrushev. “She could have been taken by one of the soldiers into the woods, raped, and killed, then thrown into a ravine. It would take months to find her body.”

  Bortnikov goggled at him. “Are you mad? Why do you assume that?”

  Patrushev ignored him. “Anton Gorelikov is a different matter. If he has defected, it is a potential disaster. Your services should have been more vigilant.”

  Bortnikov looked across the table at him. “You are levying blame on Egorova and me? Are you serious? You are head of the Security Council with an oversight charter over all matters of State security. You share the responsibility.” Bortnikov was almost yelling, but Patrushev was blasé and unaffected.

  “The FSB exists to catch spies in the Rodina. The SVR is supposed to run foreign assets who can give early warning of such breaches,” said Patrushev. “It is my observation you both fell short in these duties, and in consequence failed the president.” There it was, the cringing, blame-shifting, famous among the Kremlin siloviki, with no one taking responsibility, and everyone distraught and disapproving when the president was ill served by others. Dominika calculated that perhaps this criticism would push her and Bortnikov closer—at least until the next palace crisis. Bortnikov still goggled at Patrushev, and his blue halo flickered in agitation.

  Dominika understood what Nikolai was doing, distancing himself from any responsibility. But she was now Director of SVR. It was time to assert herself, to establish a voice among these men who, along with the president, would be her competitors, allies, and rivals in the years to come. “With respect, I think no one deserves any blame, and it is unseemly that Nikolai pretends otherwise,” said Dominika. “One thing is certain. We will know clearly whether Anton Gorelikov is a CIA mole, and we will know the truth very soon.”

  Patrushev and Bortnikov stared at her. “The proof will be apparent within four or five days,” said Dominika. “If in the next week important SVR assets in the United States are compromised, then it must be the inescapable conclusion that Gorelikov is CHALICE. This is conjecture, but if it happens, it is incontrovertible proof.” That should nail down the notion of Anton’s guilt.

  “How do we brief this to the president?” said Bortnikov. Patrushev offered no guidance.

  Dominika leaned forward. “Given that Anton was one of the president’s closest advisers, I think care should be taken, great care, not to insinuate that the president himself was incautious, or overly trusting, or blind to the obvious signs, if any, that Anton was going down the wrong path.” The two magpies on the other side of the table nodded their heads.

  “If it suits you, gentlemen,” said Dominika, fingering a striking strand of pearls around her neck, “I can brief the president on this difficult situation. We are lucky that we have the American case officer in Moscow to use as a bargaining chip. We can use the American to exchange for our assets, and additionally demand the extradition to Russia of Gorelikov.”

  “Since it was your idea,” said Patrushev, relieved, “it would certainly be appropriate for you to brief the president. Don’t you agree?” he said to Bortnikov.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “The president likes and trusts you.”

  Dominika nodded. “That would be satisfactory,” she said. “Then all we have to do is wait. I intend to return to Moscow tonight to monitor the situation from Yasenevo.” And I want to see Nate.

  * * *


  * * *

  Audrey Rowland walked in the twilight on the raised boardwalk over the bog on the northern end of Theodore Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River between Rosslyn and the John F. Kennedy Center in the heart of Washington, DC. The island was part of the National Park System, and would close in ninety minutes. Pedestrian traffic was light. An old coot had been fishing off the causeway bridge that connected the island to the parking lot on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, and two blue-hairs with cameras had passed Audrey fifteen minutes ago, chattering like parrots and idiotically looking for birds to photograph. After that, she was alone. As she walked soundlessly on the planks of the boardwalk in the failing light, lumpy things—turtles and frogs—occasionally splashed in the brackish, reedy water, but otherwise the forested island was eerily calm.

  The boardwalk curved east, and the lights of Georgetown and downtown DC were coming on, visible through the dense foliage. Audrey stopped and sat on the secluded bench designated as the meeting site, looked at her watch, sat back, and listened. The creeks and pops of the deciduous forest were muffled by the drone of the evening traffic on the nearby Key and Roosevelt Bridges. Otherwise nothing. Audrey had been making clandestine meetings for a long time, and was accustomed to the jittery stomach and damp palms that came before making contact with her GRU handler or, more recently, with SUSAN, the illegals officer from New York. Meeting with this creepy bitch was a lot safer than meeting someone from the Russian Embassy, but Audrey didn’t like her. There was something superior about her attitude; she didn’t acknowledge Audrey’s rank or importance. Audrey already had resolved to tell Uncle Anton that she wanted a different commo system, and she was sure the Russians would comply, especially since she was two days away from Senate confirmation as the new Director of the CIA.