Red Sparrow

by Jason Matthews

  “That’s the best thing about a clandestine operation, the TV lights,” said Gable, looking at Nate.

  “Everyone at Headquarters is in a different stage of pissed, seriously pissed, and fucking outrageously pissed,” said Forsyth. “There are recriminations flying back and forth: Why didn’t we anticipate this kind of SVR action? Why didn’t we yank you off the case? Why couldn’t MARBLE warn us about the ambush? Most of it’s bullshit.

  “I received an email this morning from Chief Europe. Admiral Nelson suggested it was ‘time to change the sails’ in the DIVA case. Apparently C/ROD told Chief Europe he had his head up his ass. In front of the Director. That’s all stuff we can handle.

  “Then last night Benford called asking whether his guidance about not going to Dominika’s room was unclear. He sends his regards. Explaining your performance to him, specifically, is something we—you—might not handle so easily. It will depend on Benford’s inclination to flog you.”

  “I gave him my personal recommendation to do so,” said Gable.

  “Yet there is hope. Benford says this incident has created a narrow window of opportunity; he was very excited. He is arriving late tomorrow evening and until then he wants you to stay out of sight.” Forsyth went to the sliding glass doors of the balcony and looked through a gap in the drawn curtains. “It’s important that Dominika stay hidden so the Center keeps thinking the worst, that she’s blown to the CIA, that their plot to ambush Nate is exposed. We’ve got a couple of days at the most.”

  Gable got up and walked down the little hallway and knocked at Dominika’s room. He spoke softly through the door and then she told him to come in. They could hear his muffled baritone down the hall, and in ten minutes Gable walked back out and sat down. “Trouble,” he whispered. “She’s agitated. Not hysterical, just pissed. Splenetic. That temper, but this time it’s serious. Doesn’t know who to trust. Us, MARBLE, certainly not her own people.” Nate struggled to get up out of the chair. “Sit the fuck down,” said Gable. “Part of it is that she’s frantic she almost got you killed, first thing she asked was how you are.”

  “She saved my life,” said Nate. “That mechanic had me cold.”

  “You check out the room when you went up?” Nate avoided his look. “Didn’t think so,” said Gable.

  “She’s talking about not going back, about running away, defecting. She’s shocky and betrayed and her leg’s hurting her. Poor kid, just spent two days with droopy over here.” Nate wasn’t going to make things worse by telling them about the lovemaking.

  Forsyth stood up. “Marty, stay with DIVA until Benford arrives. Nate, we’ll smuggle you into the Station tomorrow. I want you to start writing up what happened; Benford is going to want a full readout.” Nate nodded.

  “Right now let’s give her space,” said Forsyth. “We may have lost her as an agent. We probably won’t find out until she does some thinking.”

  Forsyth left and Gable got up, rattled around the kitchen, came back out to the living room, said he was going to the corner to get a bottle of wine, some cheese and bread. “Stay off the balcony,” he said, moving toward the door. He took a pistol out of his coat pocket, flipped it to Nate. “PPK/S,” Gable said. “Ladies’ gun. I brought it for you.”

  =====

  Dominika spent most of the first night on her bed, looking at the ceiling. Then she had gone into Nate’s room to sit beside the bed, watching him sleep. She knew exactly what had happened. Uncle Vanya had tired of waiting for her to elicit the information about the American mole, had dispatched Matorin to solve the problem and protect his political flank. He apparently did not care that anyone in a room with Matorin was at mortal risk. Had he intended Matorin to eliminate her too? She was not sure, but for the moment she would assume the answer was yes. Another betrayal by Vanya and the navoznaja kucha, the dunghill of the Service.

  She had told Bratok that she was not sure she wanted to continue spying. She was out of Russia, in the West, perhaps she would defect. Gable listened and softly told her to do what she thought was best. His aura was deep purple, he had no reason to be so serene, but she was glad.

  Now it was the next night and late, the beacons on the microwave towers on the ridge of Ymittos the only pinpricks of light on the dark mass of the mountain until the orange streetlights of Zografos and Papagou. Forsyth and Benford sat in chairs while Dominika in a bathrobe lay on the couch so she could keep her leg elevated. She had heard Nate leaving the apartment earlier, but she didn’t come out to see him. Nate was gone.

  Benford arrived late, insisting on coming straight to the safe house. He asked to read the account of the attack, said that the Office of Medical Services wanted the SVR auto-injector pens in the next pouch. In the car he had listened to Forsyth and muttered that speed was of the essence.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her. “Can you walk?” She stood up and walked around the couch. She ran her fingers over the stitches, same side as her broken foot; this leg was getting a lot of wear.

  “Forgive me,” said Benford, “I need to know you can move around, because we have to go out on the street. You have to call Moscow.” Dominika winced as she sat down. Benford put a hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. I want to talk to you first.

  “Domi, I need to know whether you are willing to continue the relationship we started in Helsinki. We need to know whether you’re willing to return to Moscow and work from there.”

  “And if I am not?” she asked. “What will become of me?” She knew these men, but her trust in them—in everyone—had faded. They were professionals, they needed results, they answered to an organization that was also the Opposition. Benford and Forsyth were bathed in blue, their words were tinged with it. Sensitive, artistic, devious, they would work her in layers, she knew. Be careful.

  “What will become of you is that I will fly you to the United States and you will meet with the Director, who will award you a medal and a bank draft with which you may buy a house in a location of your choice—subject to security review—from the comfort of which you can read about current developments in Russia and the world. You will be free of a life of secrets, of intrigue, deception, and danger.” Pulsing blue out of the top of his head.

  Benford is so clever; I have met him once, yet he knows me, she thought. “And if I elect to continue working with you, what do you want me to do?”

  “If you’re in, I would ask that you make a phone call,” said Benford, “to your uncle.” Forsyth was silent and watchful in the other chair, steady blue, she could trust him—a little, anyway.

  “And the nature of the phone call?” asked Dominika, knowing they were leading her through one hedgerow after another. “What do you want to accomplish?”

  “Forsyth told me a little about the fight in the hotel room,” said Benford. “And how you saved Nate’s life. I want to thank you for that.” He still had not answered her question.

  “And the call to Moscow?” she asked.

  “After all this drama, we need to pave the way for your return home. And to maximize the chances that you land a good job in the Center—assuming you agree to continue working.” Benford pulsed blue at her.

  “If I return, General Korchnoi will ensure that I have a good position. He and I will make a strong team.”

  “Of course, we’re counting on that,” said Benford. “But you must operate separately, stay in different orbits.” Dominika nodded. “And the day will come when you will have to carry on in his place.” Dominika nodded again.

  “But to enable all this, you have to contact Yasenevo, an urgent call. You are worried, exhausted, you bribed someone, a veterinarian, a pharmacist, to sew up your leg. In your fatigue and anger you discard the basic rules about speaking openly over the phone. The Center’s Spetsnaz assassin nearly killed you. Young Nash luckily prevailed. It’s important they think Nash killed him. You are calling on the run, police on your trail, the Americans about to catch you. And you have to ask dear old Uncle Vanya to rescue you
.”

  “I see,” said Dominika. “Gospodin Benford, are you sure you don’t have a little Russian in you?”

  “I can’t imagine that I do,” said Benford.

  “I would not be surprised,” she said.

  “There’s something else you must do,” said Benford. “During the call we must spread some disinformation, do you understand the word?”

  “Dezinformaciya, yes,” said Dominika.

  “Precisely. The operation against Nash has exploded in their faces, but you were able to coax a little out of him.”

  “What do you want me to say… in this obman, this deception?” said Dominika.

  “You had an argument, still fighting the Cold War, still spying on each other. Nate blurted that a major Russian spy was just caught in the United States, an important person, managed actively by the Center.”

  “Is this true?” asked Dominika. This must have been the crisis for Vanya, she thought. He is now probably in serious political difficulty.

  “Completely true and accurate,” said Benford. “You must tell them Nate told you the Center tried misdirecting the mole hunt by indicating the spy had eye surgery. A false lead.” Benford paused.

  “Excuse me, but what is the purpose of this message?” asked Dominika. She thought it strange, but could not read Benford’s face; his color was fading.

  “Dominika, these details are important. We want to let the Center know that we saw through the deception. That’s why mentioning the eye-surgery false trail is critical. And we want the Center to think you’ve done good work, we want them to rescue you. Is all that clear?”

  “Yes, but I will tell them I killed their assassin,” said Dominika. “Me. Because he was going to kill us both. Now Nash has fled and it is my uncle’s grubaya oshibka, his blunder, not mine.”

  “Admirable,” said Benford, “a subtle refinement.” MARBLE was right; she is something.

  “I’ve written down some details, where you’re hiding,” said Forsyth. “Then we can go out and make the call.” They looked over his notes, then Dominika went into the bedroom to change, leaving Forsyth and Benford alone.

  “Not telling her she’s pulling the trigger on the general is going to upset her,” said Forsyth.

  “It’s the only way,” snapped Benford. “I don’t like it, either. But she cannot hesitate or be aware of the canary trap.”

  “She’ll figure it out. What if she’s so pissed she quits?” said Forsyth.

  “Then this converts to world-class debacle. I hope she’ll see it our way,” said Benford. “You have the Greek cops all set?”

  “It’s all arranged. She’ll be arrested the morning after the call.”

  GIGANTES—GREEK BAKED BEANS

  Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil. Add peeled chopped tomatoes, beef stock, and parsley, and boil until thick. Add cooked gigantes beans, mix well, and bake in medium-low oven until beans are soft and top is crispy, even lightly burned. Serve at room temperature.

  38

  Vanya Egorov was in his office working late. The sky had gone from pink to purple to black, but all Egorov noticed was the flat-screen monitor showing endless stories from Greek television, Eurovision, the BBC, Sky, the American CNN, about the incident in Athens.

  The Athens rezidentura had confirmed that the dead man was Sergey Matorin. Vanya felt his bowels flip when the rezident informed him that the Greeks—inexplicably—had already cremated the body, making a forensic autopsy impossible. Inexplicably, my ass, thought Vanya. The CIA owned the Greeks, had for years.

  Not important, not now. Vanya knew someone else had authorized the wet work in Athens, had dispatched the pie-eyed psychopath to Greece. Not the Director, not his counterparts at the FSB. Not even the dwarfish Zyuganov. Only one possible name. As if sentient, the VCh phone trilled, making Egorov jump in his seat. The familiar voice came through brutally, rasping and ragged, but evilly calm.

  “The operation in Athens was a disgrace,” said Putin. Is he in his stocking feet? thought Egorov. Shirtless?

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said Egorov dully. There was no point in stating that he had not authorized it. Putin knew.

  “I expressly specified that there be no Special Tasks.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I shall investigate—”

  “Leave it,” said the voice. “I looked for more successes from you. The loss of the senator is colossal. The mole in your Service remains active. What are you doing to track this traitor down?” If you had resisted your monstrous urges, thought Egorov, we might have him in the bottle.

  “As you know, Mr. President, I assigned a skillful officer to exploit the American handler. I was hoping for important information—”

  “Yes, your niece. Where is she now?” Here it comes, the worst.

  “She is unaccounted-for, in Greece.” Silence at the other end.

  “What is the probability that she is dead?” asked Putin. Don’t sound so hopeful, thought Vanya.

  “We are waiting for word,” said Egorov. Another long silence. Dominika was a bigger threat to the president, more than the espionage flap in Washington, bigger than a mole in the Service.

  “She needs to come home,” said Putin. “See that she is safe.” Which meant, Ensure that she will never—ever—talk about the Ustinov intriga, the action, whatever it takes—whatever. The line went dead.

  Dominika was missing; if not dead, then presumably in hiding. How she could hide, alone, in the Greek capital, was a mystery. His little Sparrow must be resourceful, he thought. There was news footage of a cordon of gray-and-white Greek police vans around the Russian Embassy in Psychiko. The Greeks had considered the possibility that a Russian fugitive would seek refuge in the chancery.

  News accounts included reports of another man, they didn’t have Nash’s name. Had Dominika gotten anything out of him? Had the CIA killed Dominika? Captured her? If she was alive, he had to get her back. Spasenie, salvation, would be possible.

  The telephone on his desk purred—it was the outside line, and therefore nothing important. “What is it?” he snapped. His aide Dimitri was on the line.

  “An outside call patched in from the duty officer, sir,” he said.

  “What is this nonsense?” Egorov raved.

  “A call from overseas, sir,” said Dimitri. “They traced it to Greece.”

  Egorov felt the skin on his head contract. “Put it through,” he said.

  Dominika’s voice came in over the line. “Uncle? Uncle? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, hello, my child. Where are you?”

  “I cannot talk long. It is very difficult here.” She sounded tired, but not panicked.

  “Can you tell me where you are? I will send someone to you.”

  “I’d welcome the help. I’m a little tired.”

  “I will send someone for you. Where can we meet you?”

  “Uncle, I have to tell you that my friend, the young one, began talking. I made good progress. Like you hoped I would. But your man, that d’javol, almost killed us both.”

  “What happened?” asked Egorov.

  “They fought. My young friend fled, I do not know where he is.”

  “The young American bested a Spetsnaz-trained fighter?” Egorov wanted to know.

  “No, Uncle. I killed him. He would have killed me.” There was silence on the other end of the line.

  Hristos, Christ, Egorov thought, what a demon. How could she possibly have liquidated Matorin? His hand on the receiver was wet. “I see. What did your young friend tell you?”

  “Yes. Something strange. He bragged that the Americans had just caught one of your spies, a woman; he said she was important. I told him I did not believe him.” You can believe it, all right, thought Egorov.

  “He told me you had tried to mislead the Americans, telling them the spy was sick, unable to work.”

  Egorov was about to scream into the receiver, to tell the little idiot to get on with it. He could feel his own pulse through the earpiece. “That�
�s most interesting. Did he say anything more?”

  “Just that the spy did not really have eye surgery, it was a false trail and the Americans saw through it. My friend seemed quite proud that they had caught the spy,” said Dominika.

  And now they will be less pleased when they lose their own spy, thought Egorov. Korchnoi.

  “Nothing more?” Korchnoi.

  “Nothing, Uncle. Our conversation might have continued if we had not been interrupted.”

  “Yes, of course. Now we must get off this line. Where are you? I will send someone for you. You must stay out of sight.”

  “I have been staying with a man I met, a stranger, in his apartment. He promised not to turn me in if I was nice to him. That’s what you trained me to do, isn’t it?”

  Egorov missed the irony in her voice. “Can you stay there for another day? Are you calling from his phone?”

  “I think I can stay. But I have to go out to call. I abandoned my phone in that hotel. The man has no phone, only a mobile, I would not like to use it to call you. There is a kiosk across the street. I’m calling from there, with a phone card.” She gave him the name of the street and the building number in the working-class neighborhood of Patissia, north of Omonia Square.

  “Be at the kiosk tomorrow exactly at noon,” said Egorov. “A car will come for you. The driver will mention my name. We’ll get you back home. In the meantime, stay off the street.” He broke the connection.

  If they could recover her, Egorov thought, he would be safe. He would cover her in medals if they bagged Korchnoi. First, a telegram to that durak in Athens to see if that jackass could manage to pick up an officer under hot pursuit, then order twenty-four-hour coverage on Korchnoi. No alarms, no alerts, no exfils by the Americans.