The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  Putin noticed Dominika wore the pearl necklace he had given her—she wondered if Gorelikov’s DNA still lingered between the pearls—his previously thunderous expression cleared slightly, and he half smiled at her, which did not escape Bortnikov’s or Patrushev’s notice. Not good, especially if word got around that Director SVR was wearing the chemise cagoule for the president. In Sparrow School that meant they were intimate, referring to the medieval woman’s long nightgown with the demure single embroidered hole for copulation, the Middle Age precursor to crotchless lingerie. That would not do.

  * * *

  * * *

  The night before, after their return from Cape Idokopas, the president had called on Dominika at her new apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, coming up via the underground garage elevator. He ostensibly wanted to discuss counterintelligence, but obviously the president was looking for a return bout with her. Putin was on the boil that evening—it was the day of MAGNIT’s arrest, and four days after Gorelikov’s disappearance—but his worries did not minutely affect his carpenter-like performance in bed: the presidential wood saw was again wielded steadily but without inspiration, leaving Dominika to daydream about Nate, and to wonder if she could risk visiting him in jail. He was in Butyrka Prison, but in the wing for political prisoners where inmates were treated more mildly. It did not at all mean he was out of danger; dissident attorney Sergei Magnitsky died in the same cell block in Butyrka after being beaten, then denied medical care. Dominika stilled the impulse to raise the matter of a Nash spy swap while still in bed with Putin, chiefly because the president was not susceptible to postcoital euphoria.

  After sex, the evening wasn’t over, for the president uncharacteristically lingered to chat, so Dominika padded around her spacious new kitchen in a black V-neck, knee-length cotton slip with one spaghetti strap carelessly hanging off the shoulder and her hair tied with a ribbon. She didn’t wear a black satin thong underneath, in case Volodya fancied kitchen-counter sex (No. 81, “Béchamel thickens only with stirring”) before he left.

  Sitting on a modern bar stool in Dominika’s deluxe kitchen of stone and wood, Vladimir Putin was content. The headlines about Audrey Rowland’s arrest did not overly concern him, as grievous a loss as it was. Lurid news like this was good for Russia’s image, was good for his image as muzhestvennyy, the virile leader who ran spies around the world. The world would know that the secret services of Russia were omniscient apex predators that could penetrate the governments of his enemies, discover their secrets, and exert his will over them. Of course, spies could suffer reverses, but Putin enjoyed seeing foreigners—governments, or companies, or individuals—moderate their behaviors in fear of his wrath. His active measures were creating lasting discord in the West, at minimal cost, and if he wanted to unseat an American politician, he had only to release an embarrassing, unencrypted email through WikiLeaks run by that languid dupe hiding in that exiguous Latin embassy in London. Partisan political hysteria now gripping American society would do the rest.

  And he was having his bullish way with Egorova, a delectable bonus. He looked at Dominika’s legs as she reached for an upper cabinet and saw how the ballet dancer’s calf muscles flexed when she was on tiptoe. He did not at all mind the whispered gossip in the Kremlin already swirling in the hallways that the two of them were bedmates. No one would dare utter such gossip aloud, and it simply validated that the SVR belonged to him, just as the FSB belonged to him, just as the siloviki belonged to him.

  To go with the Georgian champagne she had opened, Dominika assembled a quick Mediterranean appetizer with ingredients available only at the special government commissary on the ground floor of her building: marinated artichoke hearts with capers and olives on bruschetta under the broiler, a contorno she first tasted in Rome while meeting with Nate. They were newly in love then, and had fed each other with their fingers, giggling and drinking Asti. It occurred to her that her thoughts always returned to her Neyt. Take care lest the tsar sees it in your face.

  She bent to take the tray out of the oven, feeling his eyes on her haunches. Time for her pitch. She was better at this than he was, but she had to be careful. She reverted to more formal address. “Mr. President, given the events of the last four days, I have a suggestion I would like you to consider,” said Dominika. Putin sipped a glass of champagne she had poured for him.

  “I recommend that the American be moved from Butyrka to a special safe house, where he could be kept under close supervision, and where low-level interrogation by a team of minders could continue without interruption.”

  Putin looked sideways at her. “Why would we spare the American the discomfort of prison?” he asked.

  “CIA was not above mounting a rescue operation at the Black Sea compound. I would hate for them to try the same thing in Moscow. It would not be impossible. Prison guards are paid little, and many are corrupt.”

  Putin looked at Dominika’s figure under the sheer black slip, faint blue veins traversing her cleavage. The savory artichoke hearts sizzling out of the oven smelled delectable. “We can discuss the matter at the meeting tomorrow morning. I want to talk to the three of you. At eight o’clock. To discuss all the security variables,” he said.

  There was a reason he had lingered in her apartment, sipping champagne and watching the swell of her buttocks as she moved around the kitchen. Putin knew facts the others did not know, and he intended to make tomorrow’s meeting unpleasant, because things needed shaking up, perhaps including some purges and firings. He’d done it before to his Council, and it was time again. The shaking up—in General Egorova’s case at least—could start tonight. He reached and grabbed her hair, pulling her close to him, looking at her eyes. Dominika kept her unblinking gaze steady, and let him wrap his fingers in her hair, imagining delivering a single ballistic slap—a Systema strike—against his jaw. Was he going to push her head into his lap? He held her wrists behind her back with one hand and pulled her closer, so their lips touched. He popped an appetizer into his mouth and smiled.

  Dominika felt the rage well up inside her gut, yet she resisted the elemental urge to push away from this neznatnyy, this jack-in-the-office commoner with imperial airs. If he wanted her mouth in his lap, she’d use her teeth and spit his severed manhood into his face as he chewed hors d’oeuvres. Wait. This is five minutes of humiliation. In the end you’ll bring him down.

  * * *

  * * *

  But the next morning in the conference room with a furious Putin, the situation changed. Dominika’s love talk—she had cooed kroshka, baby, poppet, sugar, to him last night—was a distant memory, her sore crotch forgotten. He was once again the blue-eyed caliph, playing it heavy and serious.

  “MAGNIT is blown, a valuable asset prepared over a dozen years compromised,” yelled Putin. “And none of you had the wit to manage the case to prevent her arrest.” He slammed his hand hard on the table theatrically.

  Patrushev of the oily yellow halo sat back in his chair. Dominika waited for the inevitable prevarication. Nikolai looked back and forth between the president and his colleagues. “Mr. President, Anton Gorelikov’s treason and defection could not have been foretold. MAGNIT was his case, and he did not share operational details. He had not even briefed Egorova yet. Once Anton revealed all to his CIA paymasters, no operation of ours could remain secure. We must complete a full damage assessment regarding the extent of his knowledge. He was aware of a great deal.” Dominika’s scalp twitched; Patrushev obliquely was criticizing Putin himself for trusting Anton so much.

  Putin stared at the three of them. “My brilliant tsaredvoreti, my loyal courtiers,” he said, thick with irony. “Gorelikov did not defect. He was kidnapped,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  The conference room was quiet, as the three of them stayed still, wondering if Putin’s penchant for reading minds and foreseeing the future was just now psychotically manifesting itself. Dominika held her breath and wondered how he knew. Did that mean he also suspected her? Finally, B
ortnikov spoke. “Kidnapped by whom? Mr. President, with all due respect, it’s an outlandish theory.”

  “Kidnapped, taken hostage, assassinated, it makes no difference,” said Putin, angrily. “We have been the target of a massively diabolical operation by CIA, a deception unparalleled since the height of the Cold War.” The tsar was schooling his professionals.

  Bortnikov’s FSB was responsible for internal security. How did the president know this? This was FSB turf, his territory. His halo pulsed in agitation. “What deception?” he said.

  Putin snorted in derision at his useful fools. “CIA removed Gorelikov—shot, poisoned, threw him to the sharks, it does not matter—so we would conclude the inevitable.”

  “This is an impossibility,” said Bortnikov. “You know how operations are conceived and implemented. You know the Main Enemy. How can you possibly believe—”

  Putin held up his hand. “CIA removed Gorelikov to make us believe he is CHALICE, and that he defected. MAGNIT’s arrest came immediately afterward, a well-timed coincidence, no? But I am telling you this categorically: Gorelikov cannot be the mole. CHALICE is still among us.”

  Without knowing why, Patrushev was nodding in agreement like a felt-headed dipping-bird toy sold in kiosks in Gorky Park. “On what do you base this theory?” asked Bortnikov, struggling to retain a modicum of deference. Dominika could see he was furious with Patrushev, a natural podkhalim, a real lickspittle.

  “A single fact,” said Putin. “Gorelikov conceived of, planned, and managed the Kataklizm operation to eliminate Alex Larson.”

  Silence. All of them looked at Putin in shock. They knew everything that went on in the Russian Federation, but none of them had heard of this before. Eliminate Larson? My God. Dominika knew she had just heard the most explosive secret intelligence of the decade: Kremlin complicity in the allegedly accidental death of the American DCIA.

  “Gorelikov planned the death of Larson?” she whispered. “Do the Americans know? There will be bedstviye, calamity over this.” When I tell them.

  Putin did not care; he smirked at their discomfort, and his halo shone. Was he not the tsar? Did he not rule Novorossiya? “No asset under the control of CIA would undertake the assassination of its own Director without warning Langley and disrupting the plot,” he said. “Other services might martyr their own, but never the Americans. The Chinese perhaps, the North Koreans certainly, and Stalin without a second thought. But not the Yankees.”

  “So the real CHALICE is active?” said Patrushev, not dwelling on the enormity of Kataklizm or statal murder. He seemed eager to please the president, eager to agree.

  Putin nodded. “It is clever. We all assume Gorelikov is CHALICE; therefore, the real CHALICE is safe. You all know the Game. We’ve run such deceptions ourselves. Alex Larson’s death proves Gorelikov could not be an American asset. His success in Kataklizm exonerates him.”

  “And CHALICE?” muttered Patrushev.

  Putin’s face changed from smirking narrator to phlegmatic prosecutor. “The three of you must ask each other that question,” said Putin, staring at them.

  “Mr. President, what are you saying?” said Bortnikov, sitting stock-still.

  That he suspects one of us, thought Dominika. It’s a wonder he didn’t pass out pistols loaded with blanks to see who would shoot whom. All right, what would Bratok do? What would he tell you? If you don’t keep calm, if you don’t share the outrage, they’ll suspect you. Like a sleepwalker heading toward the edge of a cliff, Dominika heard herself speak. “The American officer Nash is the key. He certainly knows important details, doubtless even the true identity of CHALICE. It is time for enhanced interrogation to begin.” Idiotka, you better pray you haven’t signed his death sentence.

  Putin nodded with satisfaction. “Let it be so, and no more talk of comfortable safe houses or spy swaps,” he said, pointing his finger at Dominika. “You are in charge, but I want all three of you there. In the room. I want that name the American hides behind his teeth. I don’t care how you get it. But get it. The medical team is already at Butyrka, waiting. Go now.”

  They all knew they had to out-Herod Herod to prove their innocence. With Putin, demonstrable innocence didn’t matter; he just wanted to blame someone.

  * * *

  * * *

  That month, Lucius Westfall officially joined the Directorate of Operations, and soon would be going through operational training at the Farm, as Nate, and Gable, and Forsyth, and all of them had done before him. After the Farm, Westfall was scheduled to begin Russian-language training in preparation for his first tour in Moscow. The irony did not escape either Benford or Forsyth as they looked on benevolently.

  As a renewed, rather frantic search for replacement candidates for CIA Director roiled the political waters of Washington, DC, Acting Director Farrell summoned Benford to his office.

  “I am told by Senator Feigenbaum’s former staff director Rob Farbissen that you obviously and deliberately misled the DCIA candidates during their preparatory briefings, and that you withheld asset information from them,” said the Director. “Duchin from Congressional Affairs corroborates Farbissen’s accusations. You were expressly ordered to brief the candidates completely and fully, without reservation.” He straightened the blotter on his otherwise spotless desk.

  “We were conducting a counterintelligence investigation,” said Benford, with infinite weariness. “I was convinced, after an exhaustive investigation, that one of the three candidates for the job was working for Moscow. It turned out I was right. We were forty-eight hours from having a Russian mole as Director of the Agency. It was the reason Alex Larson was assassinated.”

  Farrell scoffed. “You can’t leave Larson alone. You’re preposterous. That is speculation, but it does not excuse you from your dereliction,” said Farrell. “Or from your insubordination. Benford, you’ve been an irascible, uncontrolled rogue your entire career. Why is that, do you think?”

  Benford shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose, unlike you, I never got accustomed to the taste of cock.”

  Farrell sat up, red faced, and slammed his fist on the desk. “That will do,” he yelled. “You’re fired, effective immediately, separated from the Service. Go to that rat hole you call an office, and collect your personal items, and two officers from Security will escort you out of the building. You can surrender your badge to them, and good riddance.”

  Benford left the Director’s office without another word, but by the time the two blue blazers escorted him through the turnstile at the north entrance, two hundred employees were lined up along the length of the atrium, applauding. Benford scowled at the crowd and waved once, then turned and unclipped his badge from his torn jacket pocket, handed it to one of the security men, and went through the automatic doors, which hissed closed behind him. From that instant forward, Simon Benford could have entered CIA Headquarters no more easily than could Vladimir Putin.

  DOMINIKA’S ARTICHOKE APPETIZER

  In a large bowl, toss marinated artichoke hearts, pitted Kalamata olives, capers, quartered tomatoes, and crushed garlic with white wine, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Spread out and roast on a baking sheet until tomatoes are tender. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, and top with torn basil leaves. Serve on toasted bruschetta.

  39

  Interview Room Three

  Butyrka Prison. Nate was escorted downstairs from his cell by two guards who were careful not to jostle his left arm in a short cast or his little finger swaddled in a splint, which was good because his whole left side ached. Nate was surprised when they did not enter a standard ground-floor interrogation room with the usual table, steel chairs, and photographs of Marx and Lenin, and the ubiquitous bowl of roses, which of course concealed the microphones. Instead they descended to the clammy third basement with the flaking pale-green walls and the chipped steel doors that gave no clue what or who languished behind them. Nate thought he must be the first CIA officer to be marched down this windowles
s corridor. It was utterly silent as the guards stopped him in front of a door marked OPROS 3, interview room three.

  Some interview room. The room was large and looked like a surgical theater with white tiles on the floor and up the walls above chest height. It smelled of disinfectant and was lighted a dazzling white. Several wheeled tables were aligned against the far wall and massive circular stainless-steel pole lights, also on casters, were gathered in a corner. Against the opposite wall there was a strange solitary chair that looked as though it was made of painted aluminum, with a high back and headrest, flat protruding arms, and rolling casters on the legs. The white paint on the chair was chipped and discolored, especially along the front legs, the arms, and the high back. Standing alone in a corner of the room, the chair looked like a discarded eighteenth-century baby’s high chair wheeled aside and forgotten. As he was marched in, Nate saw a makeshift gallery of five wooden chairs set up behind him. Interrogations normally did not have audiences, but perhaps these were for interrogator-trainees learning the finer points of their trade. It was typical Russian beastliness that observers were placed inside the room, to hear, see, and smell the proceedings firsthand, rather than behind one-way glass.