Benford departed and Gable went out and came back with food. They worked through the evening. Nate and Dominika pored over maps and street footage of Moscow on Nate’s TALON. The two of them picked a series of likely cache sites by which Dominika could receive her covcom equipment. She would have to case them on the ground herself. They would review the intricate exfiltration plan—Red Route Two—when the binder full of maps, photos, site reports, frequencies, and timing runs arrived the next morning. They could provisionally work out pickup sites in Moscow now. Hot-pursuit exfil, rolling pickup on the street: “As hairy as it gets,” said Gable. He didn’t add what happened to the agent when an escape plan unraveled. Nate fidgeted with the thought of Dominika vainly fleeing Moscow: He imagined the spotlights coming on, and the cars stopped sideways on the street, the grim men clustered around her.
The TALON’s screen was smallish, so they sat close beside each other to look at the images. Nate could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell soap and shampoo. He watched her slim hands slide images on the TALON back and forth. She was totally engrossed. When Dominika went to the bathroom, Gable opened two beers and handed one to Nate.
“She looks good,” said Gable.
“What do you mean?” said Nate, fastening his seat belt. He knew how Marty Gable came at things.
“I mean she looks okay after that close call with the Iranian team in the Vienna woods.” He tipped the beer back. “You did a good job getting her out of a jam.”
“Thanks,” said Nate. He knew this was just the coda before the symphony.
“She’s going to have to walk a fine line back in Moscow. This is a big deal.”
“She can do it,” said Nate. “It’s why MARBLE picked her. He’d be proud of her.” Gable nodded, finished his beer.
“Just so long as you don’t send her back inside with your GPS,” said Gable. Nate looked at him, then down at the TALON set.
“We’re not going to give her—”
“I don’t mean that; I mean your Guilty Penis Syndrome.”
“What—?”
Gable pointed a finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t say a fucking word. I thought we talked about this.”
“Jesus, Marty, I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t jeopardize—”
“You don’t know apple butter from shit spread thin,” said Gable. “What, you think that, if she loves you, she’ll do anything for you?”
“What are you complaining about?” said Nate bitterly. “You just described the perfect agent.”
“Yeah, I did,” said Gable getting another beer. “Perfect until we get word she took one too many risks for you, and got caught, and they fed her alive feet first into a wood chipper.” They stopped talking when Dominika came back into the living room, but she saw the two purple mushroom clouds above their heads and knew what they had been talking about—all of it.
They stopped working at 1:00 a.m. There would be another full day ahead with techs and SRAC and exfil planning. Jet-lagging Gable was asleep on the couch and Dominika covered him with a blanket while Nate placed another log on the fire. They walked up the curving staircase to the second floor and stood in the darkened hallway together, not moving.
“You okay with all this, so far?” said Nate. She knew he was worried, worried about her, and she was glad.
“Konechno, of course,” said Dominika. “When I get back to the Center, I will tell them I had to stay inside for a day and a night after finding Jamshidi and abandoning the safe house. There will be no trouble.” She was quiet for a beat, remembering Udranka.
“I want you to listen carefully tomorrow to the spasitel’naya zateya, the exfil plan. I want you to be able to bug out if something goes wrong.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dominika.
“I’m serious,” said Nate.
“I am serious too, Neyt,” Dominika said. “Do you think I will flee if I am in danger?” She brushed his cheek with her hand, almost feeling the purple halo around his head. “There is much I must do. They have to answer for Korchnoi.” Nate took a step back.
“Terrific. Now you’re on a jihad?”
“Do we have to talk about this now?”
Nate yawned. “All right. It’s late. We should get some sleep.”
Dominika looked at him through her lashes. “Shall I call you in the morning . . . or should I nudge you?”
“Domi. Gable’s right downstairs . . .”
“Do you want me to fetch him?” she said, laughing softly.
“Charming,” said Nate.
“I have something else charming to say to you,” Dominika said. She leaned toward him, brushed her lips against his lips, then bent and put her mouth next to his ear. She breathed in his purple fog.
“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered, pushing him toward his bedroom door.
Gable was downstairs, snoring quietly from the back of his throat. But he would know, and Benford would know, and then Forsyth. Dominika reached up and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Nate’s purple fog was pulsing and she knew he was caught again by the old demons. She didn’t care. Last night had cleared her head, and she knew what she wanted. She put a hand against his cheek.
“Neyt, I am inside the Center. I am placed in SVR counterintelligence. I am becoming close to the president, with access to information deciding one of the most important operations ever attempted by your service. I am back with you all now. I will report to you from Moscow. I know what to do, and how to do it. I know the risks. I know how to operate.” Nate stared at her.
“What happened to us yesterday,” said Dominika, “when we survived last night, and later on with you, I found something that was lacking from before. How do you say ravnovesie?”
“Equilibrium,” said Nate. He saw where this was going, and it scared him, because he was thinking the same thing.
“Yes, equilibrium. Balance. I did not feel that before, but now we have it. I need it.” She put her hands on his shoulders, and dug her nails in softly. She looked coyly at him. “I need you.”
“Last night. Last night was wonderful . . . ,” said Nate. “But you can’t work inside if we’re having an affair. We need focus, calculation, a clear—”
“Bozhe, Oh God,” said Dominika. “I am having an affair, I cannot go back inside. Gore mne, woe is me!”
“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake,” said Nate.
“Dushka, listen to me,” said Dominika. “What we have, it makes things stronger, it makes me stronger. There is nothing wrong in this. Bratok is wrong, you all are wrong.”
“How do you know what Bratok thinks?” said Nate.
“Because she’s smart and you’re a dumb ass,” said Gable, standing beside them in the gloom, a blanket wrapped around him like a Plains Indian. They both jumped: Neither of them had heard him come up the creaky stairs.
“And I am right about what you think, Bratok?” said Dominika, unembarrassed, turning toward him and tugging the blanket more snugly around his shoulders. Just like a little sister would, thought Nate.
“You know what I think, and you both know the reasons why. No one can operate at peak performance with an emotional attachment to his agent”—Gable nodded to Nate—“or to her handling officer. Especially in a denied area like Moscow. You two think it over.” He rubbed his hair and turned down the hall to his room. He suddenly stopped and came back to them.
“I want you both to be prepared for the black days ahead, maybe for the blackest day in your lives. Nash, I want you to be ready for the day we leave Domi behind in an airport terminal, or on a train platform, or at a border crossing, surrounded by FSB, without a backward glance, because we have to, because somehow, there’re bigger stakes. And you”—he pointed his chin at Dominika—“I want you to be prepared for the day you knowingly let Dreary over here walk into a surveillance ambush in some provincial capital and get thrown in prison for twenty years because there’s someone more important than Nash at risk and you can’t tip your hand.”
“Dreary,” said Gable. Dominika looked at Nate.
“Grustnyi, melancholy,” said Nate, shaking his head. Dominika laughed. Both Nate’s and Gable’s purple hazes floated in the low light of the hallway, a little alike, but different. Something in the house creaked. Gable hitched the blanket a little higher on his shoulders.
“I want you to be ready for the day one or both of you realize you won’t see each other ever again, for the rest of your lives.”
Dominika sighed. “All right, Bratok. Thank you for being prepyatstvie, how do you say this?”
“An obstacle,” said Nate.
“You mean ‘cock blocker,’ ” said Gable. “I can only hope.”
“Jesus Marty, we didn’t plan it, it just happened,” said Nate. He felt stupid and lacking.
Gable shook his head. “I didn’t say it was your fault; I said I was blaming you.”
Dominika turned, opened the bedroom door, looked back at the two men, and went inside. She left the door slightly ajar, itself a message: I’m here; it’s your choice.
“Come downstairs with me and have a brandy,” said Gable. He nodded at the door. “Then you can do what you want.”
Gable shrugged off his blanket, threw a log on the dying fire, and poured two brandies. He looked at his watch, a chunky Transocean Breitling, and rubbed his face. He pulled two thick black cigars out of the button flap pocket of his safari shirt, stuck one in his mouth, and tossed the other to Nate.
Gable nipped off the end of the cigar with his teeth, spit it into the fire—or pretty close to it—and puffed it alight with a battered stainless Ronson lighter, enveloping his head and shoulders in a greasy cloud of smoke. He tossed the lighter to Nate, who noticed it was embossed with a spear point insignia.
“Yeah, OSS logo, from World War Two,” said Gable, puffing and looking at his ash end. “Some overwrought bureaucrat in Headquarters thought it would be romantic and adapted it for our clandestine service logo. Should’ve rounded off the spear tip and made it a butt plug.”
Nate lit his cigar, which, despite the dark black wrapper, was surprisingly mild. His experience with cigars was limited, and he hoped he wouldn’t keel over after the third puff. Neither said anything for a full two minutes.
“I know Forsyth has talked to you about this shit,” said Gable. “And I’m blue in the face talking at you.” Nate knew he was not supposed to say anything. Indeed, his job now, in this room, for the next hour, was to shut up.
“Nash, the most important person in your so-called professional life right now is upstairs in that bedroom, doing her kugel exercises under the covers, waiting for her lover-boy case officer to tiptoe through the door.”
Nate blew smoke up at the ceiling as Gable had just done. Jaunty. “Marty, kugel is a noodle casserole. The word you want is ‘kegel’ exercises.”
Gable stared at him, his cigar clenched between his teeth, and Nate resolved not to speak again unless spoken to. “She is the most important thing,” Gable repeated. “On one level, she’s a valuable piece of property, an asset of the fucking CIA with nearly unlimited access, and we got to protect that asset and make sure she’s productive, because this is all about national security.
“On another level, she’s a smart, tough woman who’s on a mission to ruin all those assholes who’ve fucked with her. She’s a Russian, and a little volatile, we all know that, but she’s committed. That’s a self-propelled howitzer up there, and if you’re a smart handler, you capitalize—no, you exploit—her motivations.” He puffed twice and flicked the ash in the general direction of the crackling fireplace.
“MARBLE was the best, and Domi might be even better, if she survives. And her survival—that translates into her keeping focus, making the right decisions, not losing motivation—is materially jeopardized whenever the two of you take off your underpants and go at it like two angry camels in a tiny car.” Nate willed himself to be still.
“We’re starting a new phase in the operation, and DIVA is going to have to move in directions few Russian agents have ever tried. Unprecedented fucking access: Can you imagine an agent close to Stalin? Never. But Domi’s caught the eye of Putin, and we want to know what that fucker has under his fingernails. And if we can screw up the Iranian nuke program, the stakes get even higher.” Gable got up and poured another brandy, then held up the bottle. Nate waved him off, and Gable sat back down.
“So for instance, Domi goes back in and reports that Putin made a pass at her, wants her to spend a weekend with him at one of those dachas. What do you, her handler, instruct her to do? Tell me.” Nate stared at him. The lead elements of cigar and brandy had arrived in Nate’s head, and he tried to order his thoughts.
“Shut up,” said Gable as Nate opened his mouth. “I’ll tell you what you tell your agent. You review the intelligence requirements with her so she knows what tidbits to elicit in his bed. You let her read the bio profile on Putin by the OMS shrinks so she knows how many sugars he likes in his morning-after cup of tea. And you make sure she brings an extra pair of undies in case he rips the first pair.” Gable took a swig of brandy and a puff of cigar, leaned forward, and lowered his voice.
“And when she comes home with the smell of his aftershave still in her hair, eyes puffy from three days of Vladimir, you’re there to debrief her, and tell her what a shit-hot job she did, without a trace of irony, or judgment, or inflection, because she done her job, and you done your job, and there’s more to do, so clear the decks and get busy.” Gable leaned back in his armchair and puffed. “Sound like what you want to do, I mean, professionally?”
Nate closed his eyes. “I guess love doesn’t come into it?”
Gable smiled. “Not with a valuable agent, it don’t. It’s old school, Nash—an old-time division chief, a real baron, once told me that case officers should never get married; too distracting.”
“And you never got married?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So what, you were married or not?”
Gable shrugged. “Yeah, for a little while.”
Nate put down his brandy snifter. “And you’re going to tell me about it?”
“Fuck no,” said Gable.
“You’ve been wailing on me since I’ve known you,” said Nate. “How about throwing a bone? Tell me.” Two born manipulators, working on each other.
Gable stared into the fire. “Married young, both of us, thought she could handle the life, the travel, the nights out, but it was too much for her. She didn’t get that the job swallows you whole—funny, because she was a pianist, playing was her whole life. I didn’t know Lizst from Listerine, but the music was okay, when we weren’t fighting. The second tour was Africa, and her piano wouldn’t stay in tune until we lifted the lid and found a king cobra inside it; she wanted to live in Paris and Rome, but I dragged her to Manila and Lima instead, and she definitely didn’t like the rape gate on the bedroom door or the shotgun in the closet. We fought like two scorpions in a brandy glass, trying to hurt each other, until she packed up and left, and we didn’t get a second chance because back home she skidded on some ice and went off the road into a river, twenty-five years old, used to like listening to her play that Chopin, and two nights after she died, I was meeting a hitter from Shining Path in the port district of Lima, but the douche bag brought a knife to a gunfight, and I cancelled his ticket, and as I was going through his pockets a radio in a window somewhere was playing Chopin like she used to, and I stood over the guy and had to wait a couple minutes before my vision cleared, but that was a coincidence, because I don’t think about her much anymore.”
Marty Gable, Chopin, and Shining Path, thought Nate, Jesus. “I didn’t know about that, Marty. I’m sorry.”
Gable shrugged. “A long time ago, sort of where you are now. Only I didn’t have a fucking sensitive mentor like you got. Now all you need is to listen to my goddamn wisdom, grow some brains, and act like a top pro.”
“What happens to two scorpions in a brandy glass?” said Nate.
Gable flipped the soggy cigar butt into the fire, and drained his drink. “They can’t get traction so they get face-to-face, lock pincers, and sting each other over and over. They’re immune to their own venom. It’s a fucking metaphor for marriage.”
RUNZA
* * *
Sauté chopped onions and pureed garlic until soft. Season, add fresh dill and fennel (or caraway) seed. Add ground beef and brown, then mix in shredded cabbage, cover, and cook until the cabbage is wilted. The mixture should be fairly dry. Roll out bread dough into five-inch squares, cover centers with filling, fold corners over, and seal the edges. Bake in a medium oven until golden brown.
13
Director of the National Clandestine Service Dick Spofford sat at his desk on the seventh floor in CIA Headquarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the tops of the lush trees lining the George Washington Memorial Parkway and the Potomac River beyond. His office was modest—all the seniors’ offices on the top floor were surprisingly small—with a couch and two chairs along one wall, a built-in bookshelf running behind the unprepossessing desk, and a small circular conference table in an opposite corner.
The third most senior officer in CIA, the DNCS—pronounced “dinkus”—directed the Clandestine Service and all foreign operations. His office was decorated with relatively inexpensive prints, mostly travel posters of the golden age of steamship travel, the Italian Lake District, and lighter-than-air dirigible service between New York and Berlin in 1936. An incongruous note was struck, however, by Spofford’s displayed collection of small, plush animal figures—penguins, monkeys, starfish, buffaloes, leopards, puppies, a cross-eyed octopus—on the bookshelf behind him. Spofford was unaware of the furtive, incredulous glances as CIA’s Five Eyes liaison partners—the Aussies, Brits, Canadians, and Kiwis—first noticed the cuddly menagerie.
Spofford leaned back in his ergonomic executive office chair—an Aeron, the model designated for Senior Intelligence Service rank of SIS-Four and above—and closed his eyes. His special assistant, Imogen, was tucked inside the kneehole of his desk, kneeling between his legs and moving her hand in a motion that recalled setting a handbrake. Spofford checked his watch: Leadership Committee in fifteen minutes. As it turned out, he didn’t have that much time.
Palace of Treason Page 19
