Red Sparrow: A Novel

by Jason Matthews

  “Because, you know, I worried about inviting you to an Afghan place, I worried you would think I was being provocative,” said Nate, smiling. He wanted to turn the corner, get her to relax.

  “I do not think you are provocative. You are an American, you cannot help yourself. I am beginning to understand you, perhaps a little.” She dipped a piece of hot flatbread into a little bowl of chickpea paste drizzled with oil.

  “As long as you can forgive me for being an American . . .” Nate said.

  “I forgive you,” said Dominika, looking straight at him. Mona Lisa smile and another bite of bread.

  “Then I’m happy,” said Nate, leaning on his elbows, watching her. “What about you, are you happy?”

  “What an odd question,” said Dominika.

  “No, not right now, I mean are you happy generally, with your life?” said Nate.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s just that sometimes you seem so serious . . . sad, even. I know your father died several years ago, I know you were close.” Dominika had mentioned her father to Nate.

  Dominika swallowed; she didn’t want to talk about this, about herself. “My father was a wonderful man, a university professor, kind and generous.”

  “What did he think about the changes in Russia? Was he glad to see the Soviet Union disappear?”

  “Yes, of course, as we all did, I mean welcome the changes. He was a Russian patriot.” She took another sip of wine, wiggled her wet toes in her shoe. “But what about you, Neyt?” She wasn’t going to let him hijack the conversation. “What about your father? You told me you are from a big family, but what is your father like? Are you close?”

  Nate took a breath. They were going back and forth, trading question for question.

  A week ago, Nate had confided to Gable that he felt he was going nowhere with the Russian girl. She was too tight, too guarded, he couldn’t see that he was making any dent in her armor. “Whattya expect?” said Gable. “You want to bang her right away? She’s young and nervous, a little Russian-nutso, she doesn’t have fucking supervisors as sensitive and helpful as you got.” Nate noticed for the first time that Gable had a 1971 Laotian calendar on his office wall. “Throw her some bones, show some petticoat. Just don’t bullshit her, see if she’ll relax.”

  “My father is a lawyer,” said Nate. “He is very successful, owns his own practice. He is influential in the law and politics. He is close to my two older brothers, both work with my father. The law firm has been in my family for four generations.”

  Close to his older brothers, she thought. Dominika went straight at the question. “And why did you not go into the law with your father? You could be a rich man. Don’t all Americans want to be rich?”

  “Where did you get that impression? I don’t know, I suppose I always wanted to go on my own, to be independent. Diplomacy appealed to me, and I like to travel. So I thought I would try something else first.”

  “But your father, was he disappointed that you did not follow your brothers?” Dominika asked.

  “Sure, I suppose so,” said Nate. “But maybe I was getting away from people always telling me what to do. You know what I mean?”

  Images flashed behind Dominika’s eyelids. Ballet, Ustinov, Sparrow School, Uncle Vanya. “But is it enough to have just run away from your family? Don’t you have to accomplish something in the bargain?” She was going to press him, she decided.

  “Running away is not exactly how I would describe it,” said Nate, a little nettled. “I have a career, I’m contributing to my country.” He saw Gondorf’s face floating above the table.

  “Of course,” said Dominika. “But how exactly do you contribute?” She took a sip of wine.

  “Lots of ways,” said Nate.

  “Give me an example,” said Dominika.

  Well, as an example, I handle the CIA’s best asset, a high-level penetration of your frigging monolithic service, to thwart the worldwide evil designs of the Russian Federation and your lupine president for life, he thought. “I’ve been doing some interesting economic work lately, working on timber exports from Finland,” he said.

  “It sounds interesting,” Dominika said, blinking at him. “I thought you were going to talk to me about world peace.” Nate looked up at her. The purple mantle behind his head and shoulders blazed.

  “I would, if I thought Russians knew what world peace was.” He looked around the little dining room. “With Afghanistan and all.”

  Dominika took another sip of wine. “Next time I will take you to a Vietnamese restaurant I know,” she said. They sat there looking at each other, neither willing to look away. What the fuck is going on? Nate thought. She had gotten under his skin a little. He remembered that VERONICA thought she didn’t have a job to do. Was she working him? Her blue eyes were steady across the table.

  “It’s all right,” Dominika said, reading his thoughts. “Just don’t dismiss Russia all the time; we deserve some respect.”

  Very interesting, he thought. “We’ll think back and remember this as our first fight,” he said.

  Dominika bit into a piece of flatbread. “How do you say, I will cherish the memory,” she said.

  Their food came. Dominika had ordered a rich lamb stew with lentils, which arrived steaming in a large bowl. A dollop of thick yogurt spread out over the top. Nate had ordered bowrani, dark caramelized pieces of sweet pumpkin in meat sauce with yogurt. It was delicious, and Nate made Dominika try a forkful. They finished their wine and ordered coffee.

  “Next time I will pay the bill,” said Dominika. “We should go to Suomenlinna before it gets too warm and there are crowds.”

  “I’ll let you arrange it all,” he said, and she nodded, looking at him through her eyelashes.

  “You know, Nate,” said Dominika, “I think you are honest, and funny, and kind. I like having you as a friend.” Nate braced himself for what could be coming. “I hope you consider me a friend.”

  She wants to be friends now, thought Nate. “Of course I do,” he said.

  “Even though I am from Russia?”

  “Especially since you’re from Russia.”

  They sat in the fading light looking at each other, each thinking where this was leading, how each could bring the other along. Forty-five minutes later, they stood on the Metro platform—it was an aboveground station this far out. It was getting dark, cold but not freezing. Nate didn’t offer to drive her back into the city, and in any event Dominika would not have accepted. Nate wasn’t going to risk a chance sighting of Dominika in Nate’s diplomatic-plated car by another Russian from her Embassy.

  The fat, glass-nosed train whizzed into the station and slowed. There was no one else on the platform, and the lighted interior of the train was empty. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” said Dominika, turning toward him. Their eyes met and she shook his hand, the proper SVR gladiator. He had decided he was going to test her a little, so he held her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek. Very charming, she thought, but she had seen somewhat more in her short career. The musical horn sounded and she stepped into the carriage unsmiling, a faint limp when she turned and waved as the doors hissed shut.

  As the train picked up speed, Nate saw through the accelerating windows an old lady in a parka sitting in the next car with a basket of knitting on her lap. The train was flashing by almost too fast for Nate to see VERONICA flick the side of her nose. The platform had been deserted, so how did she manage to get on the train?

  During their respective journeys back into the city both Dominika and Nate should have been cataloguing their impressions, remembering details and composing tomorrow’s contact reports in their heads. But neither of them was. Rather, Nate remembered how her cheek had felt and how she had stepped onto the train through the open doors with the slightest catch in her stride, and Dominika thought about his hands, one scraped red and raw, and how he had blinked in surprise, followed by delight, when she had thrown Vietnam back in his face.
r />   KADDO BOWRANI—AFGHAN PUMPKIN

  Deeply brown large chunks of peeled sugar pumpkin, cover liberally with sugar, and bake covered in medium oven until tender and caramelized. Serve over thick meat sauce of sautéed ground beef, diced onions, garlic, tomato sauce, and water. Garnish with sauce of drained yogurt, dill, and puréed garlic.

  12

  Through the open office door, Forsyth watched Nate work on the cable covering the last developmental lunch with Egorova. Nash was pushing the development now, but skeptically. It was slow going with the Russian, and Nate’s confidence was still shaky. He was desperate to log a success, but banging your head against the wall took its toll. Inevitably, the stakes were getting higher. With every contact with Egorova, Forsyth knew that Headquarters would push harder, offer outside assessment, begin asking for ops tests. If Nate brought her to recruitment, they’d insist on interviews and a polygraph. The most recent Headquarters response to Nate’s contact reports was, as Gable said, “already a fucking harbinger of things to come in the future.”

  1. With receipt of this cable please confine reporting on this case to restricted handling channels. Subject ref has been encrypted GTDIVA. Please establish Station BIGOT list and relay to Hqs.

  2. Headquarters continues to applaud Station and case officer’s diligence in developmental effort against DIVA. We find especially significant DIVA’s continued willingness to meet with c/o (certainly unauthorized) and to discuss personal thoughts. Urge c/o to continue to probe for professional details and determine extent subj will respond. Officer’s elicitation efforts have paid off to date. Look forward to future progress. Kudos.

  3. In light ref developments, solicit updated Station ops plan and ops tests contemplated for future DIVA contact. Please advise next scheduled meeting and security measures planned. Hqs standing by to consult on possible next steps.

  Forsyth knew the signs. The last line presaged interference from Headquarters if the case really started taking off. The buzzards would be circling, but a stampede of visitors wouldn’t start until the weather turned warmer, thought Forsyth. He called Nate into his office at the end of the day. “Have a seat, Nate. Your last cables on DIVA were really first-rate, objective, with good case-officer assessment,” said Forsyth.

  “Thanks, Chief,” said Nate. Privately, he wasn’t so sure. He knew the growing audience who saw his cables would read them with an increasingly critical eye.

  “Your tradecraft is tight, keep it that way. MARBLE’s a priority, of course, but after that make sure your pursuit of DIVA is undetectable to her embassy.” Forsyth thought for a moment. “That translator you met, what’s his name, Tishkov, he was an interesting nugget. But working two Russians in the same embassy probably is not a good idea, especially since DIVA is coming out to play. Maybe you can save Tishkov for later.”

  Nate thought that if he didn’t recruit Dominika, all the Tishkovs in Helsinki wouldn’t help him. Too many expectations. And Forsyth pointed out another danger. “This case is on Headquarters’ scope now, big-time. Everyone’s nose is going to be in it. If you recruit her, all the heat-seekers will come out of the woodwork.

  “Right now you have to figure out whether DIVA has the inclination to doubt her system. Is she willing to listen to you and let you lead her to make the big decision?” Forsyth sat back. “Not a bad job, sitting with a beautiful Russian, trying to convince her to spy for you. Okay, get out of here and have fun. Door’s open anytime you have a question.”

  Gable took him to a little bistro owned by Greeks and made him try the scrambled eggs, fluffy and laced with onions and tomatoes. Over eggs and multiple beers that night, Gable tried to lighten Nate’s mood about the DIVA case. “Don’t try to get her in bed before you recruit her. She will correctly conclude that you fucked her to get her to sign up. Recruit her first, then you’ll be able to enjoy two of life’s singular pleasures: Running an SVR officer, and eating breakfast in bed with cunty fingers.” Gable threw back his drink and ordered two more for them.

  “Golly, Marty, I feel I’m really growing under your coaching,” said Nate, rolling his eyes. “All I know is I have to get her to relax, to like me. What happens if this starts getting emotional?”

  Gable looked over at him with a face. “Please. There’s no such thing as a case officer falling in love with an agent. It’s not allowed. It cannot be done. Get it out of your head. Go ahead and bang her if you must, but love?”

  The large main room of the SVR rezidentura in the Russian Embassy in Helsinki was dotted with plain wooden desks, set up in vaguely staggered rows. None of the desks had a terminal, but most had electric typewriters with odd lacquered turquoise covers sitting on small metal typing tables. These were specially produced JAJUBAVA typewriters manufactured in Moscow under license for the SVR and FSB, and securely pouched to overseas rezidenturi, to ensure the machines were not tampered with.

  The low-ceilinged room was harshly lit by overhead fluorescent tubes also imported from Moscow for the same reason. They hummed and blinked and reflected milk-white off the scratched glass desktops. Along the exterior walls, the small dormer windows—the rezidentura was on the attic level of the Russian Embassy—were secured first by exterior bars, then by bolted steel shutters, then double-paned glass, and finally by heavy gray curtains, the hems of which trailed ragged on the floor. Worn deer trails in the bare carpet ran between the desks. The shabby room smelled of stale cigarettes and cold black tea in paper cups.

  At one end of the room there were two offices. One was glassed in—the classified file room—with the clerk sitting at a desk in a circle of light from a gooseneck lamp. The room was lined with tall safes, some of whose drawers were open, others closed and secured by irregular yellow wax seals, as if someone had been throwing fried eggs at them. The other office was totally private, the windowless office of Rezident Volontov.

  The half dozen officers in the SVR rezidentura kept their heads down over their work as Volontov’s voice came through the closed door of his office. It was obvious that he was dressing down the newly arrived junior officer from Moscow, Egorova.

  “Moscow has been hectoring me for progress reports,” yelled Volontov, leaning over his desk. “They want to see more results against the American.” The orange cloud around his head was like smoke, swirling and unsettled. He’s feeling the pressure, thought Dominika.

  “I am making progress, Colonel,” said Dominika. “We have had a dozen encounters, all of them discreet. He has made no indication that he has reported the contact to his superiors, a significant development.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s significant and what isn’t. I directed you, the Center directed you, to document each of the meetings with Nash. Why aren’t you drafting telegrams for my review and dispatch to Yasenevo?”

  “I have drafted telegrams. You yourself told me to combine several messages in summary format. I cannot write about contacts until they actually materialize.”

  Volontov slammed his desk drawer shut with a bang, and the orange smoke swirled. “You’ll do well to be respectful and leave the sarcasm for another time. Now I want you to accelerate this slow waltz with the American. You’ll remember that the ultimate goal is to elicit information that may lead to the identification of a traitor. It is urgent, paramount, that you do.”

  “Yes,” said Dominika, “I understand the ultimate goal. I drafted the operational proposal in the first place. Everything is progressing.”

  “That includes observing whether he seems to be preparing for an imminent operation, whether he is going on a trip, whether he is nervous, or distracted, or apprehensive.”

  “Yes, Colonel, I know all these things. I am confident I will be able to discern changes in his schedule.” Dominika wasn’t sure she could; their relationship was stuck, it seemed.

  Volontov pretended to look thoughtfully at Dominika. His eyes flitted from her chin to her waist and in between. “Many of the indicators we are looking for,” he said, sitting back, “are perhaps mo
st discernible the better one knows the target. In my experience,” said Volontov, “the more intimate the relationship, the more intimate the conversation.” In your experience with Moroccan tea boys, thought Dominika. She tamped down a cold rage as she looked at the warts on Volontov’s neck.

  “Very well, Colonel. I am to meet the American again next week. I will remember your guidance concerning intimacy, and I will report progress. I will propose additional meetings in the hope we can discover his work schedule. Does that meet with your approval?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s fine. But do not underestimate an emotional dependence. Do you understand?” Orange haze swirling around his head, nerves, fear.

  The words came out before she could stop them. “Why don’t you just come out and say it?” said Dominika, coming out of her seat. “Why don’t you just order me to get on my back? I am an officer of the Service. I serve my country. I won’t let you talk to me that way.” Her body was trembling with rage and frustration. Before the scowling Volontov could react, Dominika wheeled and walked out of his office, slamming the door behind her. If it had been any other junior officer, Volontov thought bitterly, I would have followed him into the outer office, stripped the hide off him with a birch branch, then shipped him home under escort to the Lubyanka basement. Let this one go for now, he thought. With her pedigree, it’s safer this way.

  Eyes watched Dominika burst out of Volontov’s office and make her way red-faced to her desk in the corner, hard against the angle of a dormer. She sat gripping the edge of her desk, head bowed. This is some hothead, thought her colleagues. They had heard Dominika’s voice raised. Was she some kind of fool? Best to keep away from this samoubiystvo, this suicide waiting to happen, they all thought. All except one.

  The conversation with Rezident Volontov festered inside Dominika for the five days before she was to meet Nate again, this time for dinner at a local restaurant. At night, in her apartment, she looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the window, the lights of Punavuori showing through the treetops. Who are you? she asked herself wearily. How much will you take? How she longed to wipe the eye of the beast, to puncture the desiccated self-importance of these users and falsifiers. To do so publicly was suicidal. No, better a secret revenge, undetectable, something delectable she could hold inside her, something she knew that They did not know.