EGGPLANT ZAKUSKA APPETIZER
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Broil eggplants until soft and blackened. Scoop out flesh and mince finely. Sauté diced onion and red pepper in olive oil with tomato paste, then add vinegar and sugar, and season. Stir in minced eggplant, moisten with olive oil, lower the heat, and reduce until thickened and glossy. Chill and serve on buttered toast with chopped raw onions sprinkled on top.
9
Over the course of his career, Alexei Zyuganov did not normally have developmental lunches with contacts, nor was he particularly attuned to the nuances of joint operations with liaisons—allied intelligence services working in concert with SVR toward a common goal. Nevertheless, Zyuganov felt the urgency of the task before him. The president had in essence fired the starter’s gun in a race between him and Egorova in the Iranian equipment matter. He had to get that fat oligarch Govormarenko together with the AEOI Moscow representative as soon as possible to lever the procurement requirements out of him and arrange a deal. Today’s lunch was the critical first step.
Zyuganov fumed. The winner would have the president’s ear and favor. It was more than the prospect of promotion or position. He would be in Putin’s inner circle; he would wield influence, command respect. Zyuganov was gripped by a paroxysm of need. He had to win. And he knew exactly how. The audacity of his plan twitched in his wormy brain.
Other thoughts: Govormarenko would be a useful patron as well. Hitching his star to the oligarch would bring rewards. While most people assessed new acquaintances in terms of personality, or appearance, or sexuality, Zyuganov secretly categorized people using a different scale. Govormarenko would be a blubbering, cowering subject in the interrogation cellars, thought Zyuganov, with a low threshold for pain and a pervert’s fear for his private parts. He tore off a piece of bread and started chewing.
Zyuganov was sitting at a quiet side table in Damas, a small restaurant on Ulitsa Maroseyka, three blocks from Lubyanka Square. The inner dining room was done in Damascene decor with white walls, ceilings with geometric soffits, and square-backed chairs with mother-of-pearl inlays. The restaurant was not busy. Zyuganov’s thoughts cleared as he watched the head of MOIS—the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security—in Moscow, Mehdi Naghdi, walk across the tiled floor. Zyuganov got up as he approached.
“Salam, peace be upon you,” said Naghdi in nearly perfect Russian. Zyuganov thought he looked the same since he had last seen him: average height, close-cropped wiry black hair, a fringe beard at the jawline, thick black eyebrows over penetrating eyes. He wore a dark suit and plain white shirt buttoned at the collar. Naghdi always seemed on the verge of exploding into a rage, those basalt eyes looking for insult or blasphemy. Zyuganov had met him only twice before, but he disliked this simmering southerner.
“It has been some time since I have seen you,” said Zyuganov, tamping down his disdain. “I trust you have been well?”
Naghdi looked back at him unblinking, impenetrable. “Yes, well enough,” said Naghdi. He couldn’t care less, thought Zyuganov. All right, dolboeb, fuckhead.
“I have been asked by the highest authority to contact you to begin a discussion of grave strategic importance to both Russia and Iran,” said Zyuganov. “There is some urgency in the matter. There is also a commercial component of distinct advantage to both our governments.”
“I listen with great attention,” said Naghdi, glaring. It would take all week to get this one to scream, thought Zyuganov; he would be a real challenge. I’d start with electricity, to extinguish the fire in those angry eyes.
Zyuganov outlined the proposal quickly: Govormarenko; a meeting with the AEOI Moscow representative; perhaps participation by officials from Tehran and Russian nuclear-energy authorities at Rosatom. Naghdi listened without comment, then stirred.
“And what would be the goal of bringing our respective energy officials together?” asked Naghdi.
“It would be for the subject experts to discuss acquiring specialized equipment,” said Zyuganov. “To discuss methods to divert embargoed technology through Russia to Iran, to circumvent sanctions.”
“At advantageous terms to your masters, of course,” said Naghdi.
Pyos yob tvoyu mat, thought Zyuganov, a dog slept with your mother. “The advantages would be significant for both sides,” said Zyuganov, already tiring of the filigree nature of the conversation. Dealing with these Persians was a nuisance.
“And can you tell me, tovarishch,” said Naghdi, “how the Russian Federation, and SVR, has come to believe that Iran is looking to purchase such equipment?” How convenient, thought Zyuganov, the question he was waiting for. Time to set the clockwork gears in motion.
Zyuganov had formulated his plan after the meeting with Putin and Govormarenko at Barvikha Castle. He would not be bested by the coolly competent Egorova; he would not allow it. Egorova was too good, too sharp. Getting the intel from Jamshidi would be the simple matter of an additional debrief. He, on the other hand, would have to endure the prolonged, coy waltz of bringing these bearded owls together with greedy, headstrong Russians, all of whom would have competing agendas. Time would be on Egorova’s side.
No, Egorova was going to experience a setback. An operational flap. And this animal molester sitting across from him was going to be the fuse.
“In the interests of fraternal assistance I will be glad to tell you,” said Zyuganov, showing his tent-peg teeth. A waiter put down a dish of fried chickpeas redolent with cumin and garlic, and hovered. Zyuganov waved him away: This was too delicate a moment to be interrupted. “We know Iran is looking for embargoed equipment, specifically for your nuclear program.”
“And why would you believe such a thing?” said Naghdi. Amateur, thought Zyuganov, such games. Time to rip down the curtain. Naghdi did not move.
“I believe you have a problem. We have indications—sources must remain unidentified for the time being—that an opposition service has compromised a ranking member of your nuclear program.” Zyuganov held up his hands and smiled. “Yes, I know how this may seem to you, so sudden and all, and how worrying it is to discover a traitor in your midst. We all have such problems occasionally.”
Naghdi’s eyes never left Zyuganov’s face. “Is this all you can tell me?” he said. “It’s worthless information—less than worthless.”
Zyuganov smiled again. “I understand your frustration,” he said, as if reconsidering. “This is strictly unofficial—between us. Our intercepts reveal an upcoming meeting, in three days’ time, between the opposition service and your official.”
“This is still worthless information,” said Naghdi, barely concealing his fury. This little Russian teeleh, this dwarf, was playing with him.
Zyuganov looked down at his hands, as if considering whether to violate the rules and pass a secret. He looked up. He had decided. “Strictly between us, agreed?” They both knew there were no confidences, ever, but Naghdi nodded, eyes blazing. “And we can move ahead in facilitating the meeting between our officials?”
Naghdi nodded again. His lips were quivering and Zyuganov contemplated stringing him along a while longer, but decided against it. “You will do well to look in Vienna. It appears that one of your esteemed nuclear officials there has strayed somewhat. The opposition service is particularly adept at compromising otherwise honorable people. You know what I mean.”
“Zion,” spat Naghdi. Zyuganov let the word drift in the air. If the Persians wanted to shit in their pants over Israel, they were welcome to do so.
“I would suggest you begin any counterintelligence operation discreetly,” said Zyuganov. “The opposition is usually very good at detecting security problems and dangers.” He daydreamed about a pair of ratchet bolt pliers crushing Naghdi’s forefinger at the second knuckle.
“You needn’t concern yourself with our tradecraft,” said Naghdi. It was apparent he wanted to leave, without lunch.
“Of course, you know your own methods best,” said Zyuganov. Naghdi pushed away from t
he table, nodded, and walked out of the restaurant.
Zyuganov leaned back. Naghdi would pursue this lead like the fanatic he was. It had occurred to Zyuganov to add the bit about intercepts, so the MOIS would not conclude active SVR participation. The Iranians’ predilection for automatically assuming Mossad involvement would further obfuscate the issue. In the end, Egorova would be waiting for Jamshidi in that safe house for a long time—the scientist would be on a plane to Tehran long before the meeting, the case ruined, the intel flow dried up. It would make a fine scene, Dominika standing in front of the president explaining how her agent was a no-show and how her case had collapsed. The operational field would be open to him.
Nate and Dominika both returned to Vienna on the same day. After nightfall Nate slipped into Dominika’s apartment to review plans and to organize the intelligence requirements for the upcoming debrief the next evening. They were sitting next to each other on the couch in the tiny living room, papers spread out on the coffee table before them. Nate reviewed new Line X requirements from the Center, copying them into his TALON. Dominika was sitting back on the sofa, looking at him work. His face was intense.
“I presume this time you have your own requirements from Langley,” said Dominika. Nate looked up and nodded. A touchy moment: strictly speaking, DIVA should not be allowed access to American intelligence requirements. She was the agent who provided information. The intel flow was one way. Nate hesitated, tapped the screen, and spun the TALON device slightly so she could read it. He was not going to jeopardize this operation just to keep PROD requirements away from her. Agent or not, she was a partner in the upcoming false flag session. The only information she would not see, under any circumstances, was the covert-action aspect to modify the seismic flooring destined for Iran.
Besides, thought Nate, what’s she going to do, return to Moscow and say she acquired American intel requirements? From whom? the Center would ask.
She edged closer on the couch to read off the screen. “Thank you for sharing Langley’s requirements with me,” she said quietly without looking at him. “I know it is against the rules. I know it required great moral courage, as my handling officer. I appreciate that you are risking all by doing this. Even if it means the end of your career, it will be useful for me as we talk to the Persian.” She glanced sideways at him. “You can trust me dushka; I will not tell anyone.”
“I trust you,” said Nate. He saw she was in a naughty mood, dripping with sarcasm.
“Do you trust me completely?” said Dominika. They were still sitting close together on the couch. Nate’s purple glow enveloped them both.
“I trust you completely,” said Nate, “even when you’re having a tantrum.”
“What is this tantrum?” said Dominika, eyeing him sideways.
“Vspyshka gneva,” Nate said. “Total loss of control.”
“Would you like to see a real tantrum?” said Dominika. She was enjoying this. She flashed to them mock fighting, grappling, rolling around on the floor, her skirt up around her hips, mouths crushed together, a quick delicious surrender. Stop, she told herself.
“Ah yes,” sighed Nate, “the familiar and inevitable loss of reason. Sooner or later, the well-documented besnovati emerges, the demoniac.” Nate looked at her mouth, dead serious. She was trying not to laugh.
They sat beside each other, nose-breathing, hands moist, pulses elevated, and she looked at his halo, and he looked at the blue of her eyes, and they were different now—they both knew it of themselves and of each other. Calm down. They had work tomorrow, perhaps a second day, then Dominika would return to Moscow to resume spying, and Nate would return to Athens Station to continue his personal battle against the Center, to continue handling LYRIC. And he would see DIVA once a year, maybe twice a year, and Moscow Station would assume direct handling responsibility for her. Nate turned and started closing down his TALON device. Dominika straightened.
“Wait,” she said. “I forgot to mention something. It’s important. You will want to put this in your notes.” She nodded at the TALON. “You are not the only ones interested in the Iranians buying sophisticated equipment.” She told Nate about Putin, Govormarenko, and Zyuganov. “They want to sink their claws into the deal. The svini are thinking only about their bank accounts.”
Holy shit, thought Nate. Heads in PROD and Headquarters are going to explode with the possibilities: Clueless Russia buys PROD-modified machinery and provides it to Iran at an exorbitant price to circumvent international embargoes. Twelve months after delivery from Moscow the seismic floor—the expensive gift to the mullahs from President Putin—ignites from within, and the seventeen hundred centrifuges of Hall C turn into radioactive slag for the next twenty-five thousand years. Tehran will demand answers from Moscow, Putin will be humiliated, and Zyuganov fed to the wolves in Siberia. Holy shit, thought Nate again. Dominika read his thoughts.
“Zyuganov is working with Govormarenko to propose the deal to AEOI,” said Dominika. “It will take them longer to sit down with the Iranians than it will for us to squeeze the details out of pepper-pants.”
And that’s the problem, thought Nate. PROD is going to need time to substitute the parts. If Dominika delivers Jamshidi’s intel in two days, we won’t have enough lead time to swing the covert action.
“We’re not going to squeeze that intel out of Jamshidi, or at least you’re not going to report it to the Center,” said Nate slowly, looking into her eyes.
He couldn’t manipulate this triple cross without her knowing why, without her being aware of the covert action. Which was impossible. Blasphemy. Forbidden. A firing offense. There was no time to cable Headquarters; a phone call to Gable and Forsyth in Athens would be insecure. Besides, Gable would tell him to make up his own mind, take action, goddamn it, and risk the consequences. “Life’s a bitch,” Gable once told him, “and Life’s got a lot of sisters.”
“And tell me why, please,” said Dominika. That tone like mercury running uphill. She was waiting to become furious, for real this time.
And Nate did, crossing the boundaries, breaking half a dozen rules. Dominika listened carefully, stayed silent. Shit. I just told an agent, a Russian SVR officer, about a covert-action op. He was already thinking about the interview with Office of Security in Headquarters.
“I will do this,” said Dominika.
“What?” said Nate.
“Your plan. It is genial’nyi, ingenious. Think of the Supreme Leader’s displeasure, and how embarrassed Vladimir Vladimirovich will be. And poor Zyuganov: He’ll be tasting his own rubber truncheon.”
FRIED CHICKPEAS
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Drain canned chickpeas and thoroughly pat dry. Fry in hot oil (they may splatter) with unpeeled cloves of garlic and sage leaves until the chickpeas are crispy and the garlic is golden. Blot on paper towels, then toss with cayenne and paprika. Serve at room temperature.
10
Dusk. Nate and Dominika walked in separately on the way to the meeting with Jamshidi. They came from different directions, checking their sixes, using the lengthening shadows on the street for contrast and to pick out repeat pedestrians and vehicles that didn’t belong. Nate had to loiter at the far end of Langobardenstrasse to wait for Dominika—she’d had to build in an additional loop to her surveillance-detection route to clear a “possible” and it took an extra half hour. Nate watched her approach from halfway down the block, his TALON in a strapped case over one shoulder.
He knew her elegant stride, the nearly undetectable limp, how she held her head straight, how she wore her hair pinned up. She didn’t look around, but he knew those blue eyes didn’t miss much on the street. Nate was dressed as he had been before—nondescript and neutral—but she was dressed in a dark pleated woolen skirt with a belted tweed jacket over a black blouse. She wore black suede ankle-high boots with a low heel, not her usual style. He looked at the boots as she approached.
“What?” she said, noticing his look.
“Nothing,” sa
id Nate.
“You are looking at my shoes,” she said. She may have been a spy, a mole, a clairvoyant synesthete, but she also liked shoes.
“They’re nice,” said Nate.
“What do you mean ‘nice,’ ” said Dominika. “What is wrong with them?”
“Very stylish,” said Nate. This was insane: Two spooks headed to a clandestine, coercive debrief with a hostile agent, and they were standing on the sidewalk arguing about shoes.
“You’re obviously quite the expert. I will have you know they are the latest style,” said Dominika. “And Line T has modified them.”
“Your shoes have television reception?” said Nate.
“Nevezhda, ignoramus. Steel toes. For self-defense. Shall I kick you to show you?”
“Look, they’re very nice. You look very nice. Do you mind if I ask you whether you’re clear?” Dominika looked down at her shoes, then at Nate, and nodded. He looked at his watch. “We’re running late; let’s go. Our boy may be there already.” Dominika walked beside him.
“That is okay. Udranka can relax him before our arrival.”
They entered the apartment building and walked silently up the curving staircase, both using supinating, heel-to-toe steps on the landings, to ease past the closed apartment doors without a sound. Second floor, third floor. Small bulbs in wall sconces in the stairwell had come on, casting shadows against the marble walls.
“I just cannot believe you do not like these boots,” whispered Dominika, half turning toward Nate as they climbed the last flight of stairs.
Her key was in the lock and they entered the apartment—lamps were already on and soft music came from the bedroom. They had assumed their operational faces, but that ended when they saw the flies on the walls—lots of flies, the wall was black with them—and the leading edge of the blood pool coming out of the kitchen. Dominika grabbed Nate’s arm and sidled up to the kitchen doorway and they looked in. Jamshidi was lying on his back, half under the table, his head propped upright against the wall, which was covered widely with blood spray. His face looked like dropped pie: Half his skull was gone, hollow and rimmed with bloody hair. The other side of his face was intact, but his remaining eye was filled with blood in an eight-ball fracture. Blood had come out of his mouth and down his chin, soaking his goatee and shirtfront. He lay completely in a pool of black blood around the edges of which settled scores of flies, drinking until they fell over onto their backs.
Palace of Treason Page 14
