Palace of Treason

by Jason Matthews

  She tamped down a grim revulsion when contemplating using Sparrow School blandishments on the woolly Yevgeny—a nightmare backslide into a chapter of her professional life that had been forced upon her. She heard Gable’s warning in her head; she could see the expression on Nate’s face.

  When Udranka wasn’t hovering, it would be Marta sitting at the foot of her bed, tossing her hair and blowing smoke at the ceiling, telling Dominika to get on with it, so she set her guts and clenched her jaw.

  At first, Yevgeny was conscious only of Captain Egorova when she stood in front of Zyuganov’s desk, or when she walked down the interior corridor of Line KR. As he did with other women in the office, Yevgeny liked to maneuver himself to the side, so he could look at Dominika in profile, from the elegant chin and throat to the jutting chest, around to the flat swoop of the buttocks, and then to the shapely legs and ankles. Dominika knew when the little squirrel was gawking at her, his yellow bloom pulsing, but she gave him no indication. Yevgeny did not register that, in the next days, Captain Egorova began to contrive an increasingly frequent series of encounters with him: Delivering a memo to him for the fourth floor; sitting beside him at the conference table; bumping into him in the cafeteria or outside on the sunny terrace during lunch; riding by lucky coincidence the number six metro from Yasenevo, then the transfer to the number three line together most evenings, Egorova to the Park Pobedy stop, Yevgeny farther on to Strogino.

  “Strogino,” said Dominika one evening, holding on to a strap in the swaying metro car, which was nearly empty at that late hour. It was safe to talk. “That is where Korchnoi lived,” she said matter-of-factly. Yevgeny looked at her, eyes wide. He licked his lips.

  “That Korchnoi?” he whispered.

  Dominika looked at the canary-yellow flash around his head and shoulders. “It’s quite a distance from Strogino to that miserable little bridge in Estonia,” she said grimly. “A long way to go to pay for his betrayal.” It physically hurt her to refer to Korchnoi like this, to dishonor his memory. She tamped down the rage in her throat. Yevgeny leaned toward her.

  “I’ve heard about the case. There’s an old file, incomplete, redacted. You know the inside story. You were there at the swap. Will you tell me sometime?”

  “The Kremlin was well pleased,” said Dominika, shrugging. “I was able to elicit the information that exposed Korchnoi. The president was very complimentary, but it’s a little embarrassing,” she said airily.

  “I hear the stories,” said Yevgeny. “The president likes you, you’re zolotoj, a golden girl.” He looked at her again. “You’re clearly in good standing.”

  Dominika smiled at him. “Here’s my stop,” she said, standing in front of the doors. “See you in the office tomorrow.” Yevgeny stared at her back through the glass panels.

  They fell into the habit most evenings of talking in the relative anonymity of the metro car. With Yevgeny, there was no thought of comradeship, of developing any sort of friendship. Egorova was the teddy bear in the window he wanted to squeeze, and his bituminous thoughts ran from the soft, wrinkled soles of her feet to the rather severe mouth, from which he wanted to hear her begging him for love, or something like that. Yevgeny was loyal to Zyuganov, and he understood that Egorova was to be shut out of the secrets of Line KR, but his dreams of lying with Egorova did not conflict with any of that. Besides, he wanted to know the story of the traitor Korchnoi, of the woman who unmasked him. He needed to know about her connection to Putin. It was irresistible. He was a wasp hovering over a dish of sugar water.

  “What’s he like, the president?” said Yevgeny one night on the metro.

  “Everything you’ve heard about him, it’s true,” said Dominika enigmatically. “Here’s my stop.” She had timed the conversation for just this effect. Yevgeny bent to look out the grimy window of the metro, the brakes of the car squealing, as the elegant Park Pobedy station, gorgeous with its curving ocher granite walls and glowing chandeliers, came into view. His face worked nervously.

  “Look,” said Yevgeny, “why don’t I get off with you, if you’re not busy? We could have a drink.” The car jerked to a stop and the doors slammed open.

  “You’ll lose your train,” said Dominika, listening for the klaxon warning that the doors were about to close. Yevgeny slung his briefcase strap over his shoulder.

  “They run all night,” he said. The klaxon sounded.

  “Come on then,” said Dominika, dragging him out of the car just as the doors hissed to a close. Yevgeny stood on the platform, intense, breathing through his nose, lips together in a half smile. He was getting what he wanted; he just didn’t know he was feet away from a leaf-covered snare.

  Some days later, the rain beat against the glass of Dominika’s bedroom window and the ivy around the frame outside whipped in the wind. In the kitchen a steam kettle whistled. “It’s preposterous,” said Dominika, shrugging on a short robe to go fetch the tea. “This unidentified source, what did you call him . . .” She went into the kitchen.

  Marta was sitting at the table smoking. You’re doing fine. Rough in bed, gentle in his head, she said. Dominika shushed her.

  “He calls himself TRITON,” said Yevgeny sleepily from the bedroom. He looked like a chimp, the hair on his arms running into the dense thatch of hair under his arms, which were tucked behind his head. His chest and stomach were also heavily covered with dark hair, as were his legs. His khuy lay flaccid on a riot of crotch hair like a mouse on a potholder. When she first saw Yevgeny naked, Dominika had thought there would not be enough wax in Russia to strip away the hair on his body.

  Two consecutive nights after work had sufficed to set the foundation, establish rudimentary bonds of trust, throw him a bone by describing work abroad, then get him talking about himself. Yevgeny was not stupid, so Dominika had to proceed carefully, but even the most introspective mind cannot resist talking about himself. Recruitment, seduction, persuasion, all began with listening, watching those blubbery lips moving, first snatching at food, then growing confident, then moving inexorably closer, still moving, slick and wet, then the liverish feel of them on her own lips—she remembered the feel of Nate’s lips—and her secret self was barricaded in the hurricane room, the door trebly bolted.

  Then Bozhe pomogi mne, God help me, there had been Yevgeny’s notions of lovemaking, which hovered somewhere between the equine and the porcine. Nothing new to a Sparrow, but Dominika positively had to separate her mind from her body, to block out the feel of his endlessly molting chest hair on her breasts, as if a burst egg sack of baby spiders were crawling over her. She set her teeth and began to make him forget the rules and start him talking. She could not turn her face away; she could not hide her eyes or shut her ears to the grunts. It was the horrid, familiar hellish swamp They had thrust her into before, and she had sworn to make Them pay, but now she revisited the same bog by her own volition, for the Americans’ sake, and for Nate. There was not a moment’s thought of infidelity; Yevgeny was not shafting the same body that she gave to her lover, not at all the same.

  “How can we be sure he’s not part of the controlled operation run by the Americans?” Dominika called from the kitchen. She waited a double beat as she stirred strawberry preserves—an old Russian custom to sweeten tea—into two ceramic mugs decorated with folk-art birds. My Sparrow cups, thought Dominika. The prattle continued: The deputy of Line KR, having just slept with his beautiful subordinate, was now talking shop. Nothing could be more natural.

  “The rezident believes he’s genuine,” called Yevgeny from the bedroom. Dominika walked back holding the two mugs. “Zarubina is not about to make a mistake. She’s determined to become director after her Washington assignment.” He propped himself up on one elbow and took the mug. “Besides, TRITON has already exposed the Caracas case,” he said. “The Americans would never burn one of their recruitments willingly.”

  Dominika thought about her double life. Never say never, she thought.

  She sat crossed-legged
on the bed next to Yevgeny as they sipped their tea. Dominika ran her fingers, heated by the hot mug, along Yevgeny’s furry thigh. No. 45, “Apply extremes of heat and cold to enhance nerve response.” Yevgeny looked at her from beneath thick eyebrows. He was still trying to quantify his good fortune at having seduced the stunning Egorova—he could never look at her again in the office without seeing the undraped ballerina’s body of the last thirty-six hours.

  “Bona fides are essential in a case like this,” she said, drawing hot circles on his leg. The rain rasped against the window, Yevgeny’s breathing rasped in his throat, and the mouse on the potholder stirred.

  Dominika looked up again. “You are quite attractive like that, trembling the way you do.” She heard her own voice, saw her reflection in the darkening windowpane. Vorobey, shpion, konets. Sparrow, spy, slut. Shut up. Focus.

  “Operational validation is critical,” Dominika continued conversationally, as if she were not peeling Yevgeny’s brain like skin off a scalded tomato. “Zarubina presumably has tried to identify TRITON?” She leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands, to give him a dose of blue eyes and perfume. Her little kimono parted an inch.

  Yevgeny blinked. “No, nothing. She and the colonel don’t want to scare him,” he said shakily. “They think he’s too valuable.” He peeked at Dominika, who looked at him through her lashes as if he were a Polish rum cake. “Zarubina is going along with the double-agent charade to keep the channel open for TRITON.”

  “I’d still worry, just a little bit, that TRITON is a maskirovanie, camouflage for something bigger,” said Dominika. “Our Service is not the only one that can play this game. CIA has their own grand masters.”

  “I am not an operations officer like you, Captain, but—”

  “Considering the circumstances, Yevgeny,” said Dominika, “I think you could call me Dominika in private.”

  Yevgeny fought the overload. “I was saying that, while I’m not a trained officer, it seems to me that the second TRITON report is incontrovertible proof that he’s genuine. He’s even passed CIA’s own cryptonym for another source . . . LYRIC.”

  “The lead in Greece?” said Dominika.

  “Not Greece,” said Yevgeny. “Here in Moskva. The colonel thinks the leak is here, someone with access.” He looked guiltily at her. Dominika moved closer to him, eyes searching his face, as if to identify the one feature that made him so irresistible to her and to, well, all women. She gripped his bristly chin in her hand, mock serious.

  “Then tell me, please, Zhenya,” said Dominika, already sure she knew the answer, “why am I going to Greece?” The use of the affectionate diminutive of his name added to the poignancy.

  “I don’t know,” said Yevgeny.

  He’s telling the truth, Dominika thought. His yellow halo may have indicated galloping lust, and careerism, and unreliability, but its steadiness suggested that the izvrashchenets, this furry pervert, was likely telling the truth.

  “I originally thought the colonel was simply covering all possibilities, sending you to Athens to investigate. But then he specifically told me not to mention TRITON or LYRIC or Zarubina to you . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked into her eyes.

  Dominika saw a shadow flit across his face, felt a tremor run the length of his body. His yellow aura flickered, faltered. Dominika knew he had just realized the enormity of the infractions he had committed (telling her official secrets), of what he currently was doing (sleeping with her), and of the possible ramifications (Zyuganov’s rage and the cellars). Thank God he did not realize the worst: He had just provided content for her report to Nate and Gable. Congratulations, lover, Dominika thought, your first report to Langley. Now she had to give him a little muzhestvo, a little courage. Otherwise, she would have to hit him in the throat with the tea kettle and bury him in the garden. This next stage—anchoring him—was immensely dangerous.

  “Listen to me,” she said, still holding his chin. “I know what you’re thinking, but get such thoughts out of your mind. You’re helping me, and you’re helping yourself. Zyuganov does not reward loyalty; he is incapable of gratitude. You’re at risk working for him, whatever you do, however loyal you are. I’m equally at risk. It’s only a matter of time before we fall under his thumb. So we both fight and survive. You and I will help each other, watch each other’s back. All right?”

  Yevgeny didn’t move. The ivy stems scratched at the windowpane—or was it one of the Rusalki, her mermaid friends?

  “Zhenya, think,” said Dominika, tugging at his earlobe. “The only thing he cherishes is his own career. He’s keeping information from me, sending me off to Greece, because he is afraid of the inevitable: that Putin will favor me in these matters, like in the Iran affair. I see the way the president looks at him. He dislikes him; he is repulsed by Zyuganov’s history in the cellars.” Truth be told, thought Dominika, blue eyes probably admires him for all that.

  “I’m coming with you two to the Kremlin tomorrow,” said Dominika. “The director will be there, energy officials, ministers.” Yevgeny’s brow was beaded with perspiration. “So see for yourself, watch how Putin treats the little colonel.” She wiped the sweat off his upper lip with her fingers. “And watch how Putin greets me, then make up your own mind.” Yevgeny laughed a little at that. Dominika knew he invariably reported any gossip, dissension, scandal, or plot immediately to Zyuganov. But now Yevgeny himself was guilty of the massive infraction of having rutted with a subordinate, the very subordinate Zyuganov had directed him to keep in the dark. Yevgeny’s yellow halo was pulsing; he was calculating the consequences. Dominika swallowed as she leaned forward to kiss him, and the baby spiders tickled her arms and legs.

  How long would his nerve hold? All but the most monumental human recruitments required constant firming up. Well, she would firm him up, then. Yevgeny would see how Putin reacted to her during the Kremlin meeting; he’d see that she would be the better ally. She intended to manipulate the outcome tomorrow, but it would be risky. Monstrously risky on several levels. She was ready to employ Benford’s plan, the one they had discussed in Vienna. Last night the latest SRAC message—also obviously from Gospodin Benford—had validated the plan. Benford was pushing her toward Putin, she knew, trying to get her imbedded under the president’s skin. But Yevgeny—she would have to keep an eye on him. Her ultimate safety now resided somewhere between his heart and his balls.

  “So we protect each other, agreed?” Dominika said. His yellow halo quivered. “And we advance together.” Yevgeny reached up and stroked Dominika’s hair. You’re a remarkable woman, do you know that? thought Dominika.

  “You’re a remarkable woman, do you know that?” said Yevgeny.

  The Sparrow laughed. “I know I’m going to fetch some ice cubes from the kitchen. Do not move.”

  The meeting hall of the Russian Security Council was in building number one—the Senate building—in the Kremlin citadel. Close to the private working office of the president, the medium-sized room was opulent, overwhelming, imperial. Half columns of black marble were spaced along the outer walls, their gilded Corinthian capitals reflecting the bright light of a massive two-tiered crystal chandelier. The room was soaked in light—Dominika noticed there were no shadows cast on the gleaming parquet floors. The massive table ran down the center of the room: leather blotters lined the edges, and a burled-wood strip dotted with microphone pickups ran down the center. A dozen straight-backed wooden chairs decorated with inlaid ivory darts, each with green cushioned armrests, were arrayed along either side of the table. Extra chairs were lined up against the cream walls for aides and note takers.

  At the head of the table was a wide-backed chair—a throne, its back higher than the rest—covered in watered silk. Behind the throne, on the wall, hung a gorgeous tapestry and a scarlet shield with the double-headed golden eagle of the Russian Federation. Dominika stood in the doorway as senior government officials—ten of them—filed down the sides of the table. The double eagle of the Ro
manovs had been black—ironic that modern Russians were no better off than the serfs of Tsar Ivan Grozny, the Fearsome, the Terrible, thought Dominika. As if on cue, President Putin entered the room through a side door, trailed by two aides. The men around the table remained standing until the president was seated, then tumbled into their chairs.

  This was an Iran planning session, not a Security Council meeting, Dominika knew. That council had lost influence and standing during the first and second Putin regimes—it was now an elephant graveyard for soon-to-be retired military and intelligence officials, the current SVR director being one of them. Accordingly, Zarubina in Washington was positioning herself to unseat him. As the most junior participant in attendance, Dominika was seated at the far end of the table, beside an agitated Zyuganov. The SVR director, a full member of the council, sat woodenly halfway down the table.

  Dominika scanned the other faces, pinched in tight shirt collars, suit coats stretched across bellies, lank gray hair spilling over glistening foreheads. Putin’s insiders, the new politburo. Yellows and browns and blues swirled around their heads, a palette of greed, sloth, pride, lust, and envy. And gluttony. Govormarenko of Iskra-Energetika was halfway up the other end of the table, picking his teeth. Dominika recognized the only other woman at the table—Nabiullina, one of the president’s closest allies and recent surprise pick as chairman of the Russian central bank—unsmiling and sitting at Putin’s left elbow, surrounded by a dirty yellow fog.

  Then it happened. Putin scanned the assembled faces and the menthol blue eyes fixed on Dominika. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and an aquamarine tie that positively shimmered in the movie-set light of the room. “Captain Egorova,” he said, his voice cutting across the table. “Come and sit here,” he said, indicating with a wave the chair to his right. On stumps that had moments before been her legs, Dominika got up, walked through the unfolding black bat wings of Zyuganov’s insanity and past a frozen Yevgeny sitting against the wall, a notebook balanced on his knees. Eyes followed her down the silent room, knowing smiles on the faces of the wisest among them.