Red Sparrow: A Novel

by Jason Matthews

  She jumped at the soft knock and stood to one side of the door and waved a folded newspaper across the peephole, waited, then looked out. Nate, standing in the hallway, looking down. Dominika turned the locks, opened the door. Leaning against a cane, Nate limped straight into the center of the room. She turned and went up to him, snaked her arms around his neck, and kissed him. She hadn’t seen him since the first safe house, after she held the IV bag above his head in Gable’s car. She had sat with him the first night, but then he was gone.

  “Where have you been?” she said, pulling his hair. “I have been asking about you.” She looked in shock at his purple face, which blended with his florid halo. “You saved my life, it was my stupid mistake, I made you come to my hotel room.” She kissed him again. “How are you? Let me see your hand.” She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed the back of it. “Why haven’t you come to me?” He stepped back from her.

  “Were you ever going to tell me about this safe house?” said Nate woodenly. “Were you going to let me know where you were?” His words came at her, each one a deep-purple disc in the air. It was as if she could feel them hitting her body. She moved out to the balcony.

  “Yes, of course,” said Dominika, “after a few days. Benford asked me to stay quiet for two or three days. To let things calm.” She leaned against the railing. Nate followed and leaned against the doorjamb. His purple cloud pulsed as if someone were flicking a light switch on and off. Nate’s hands were shaking and he put them in his pockets.

  “How did you find me?” asked Dominika.

  “Everything that’s going on with this case—safe houses, signals, SIGINT—is being reported to Headquarters,” said Nate. “I wrote some of the cables, but Benford and Forsyth apparently have written a few of their own, in restricted channels. I was able to read some of those, against regulations. I’ve read quite a lot, actually.”

  Dominika looked at him, watched his halo, read his face, felt his anger. This was what Benford had wanted.

  “Do you know Vladimir Korchnoi has been arrested in Moscow?” Nate said brutally. “There’s SIGINT, and collateral reporting, and the VCh line in Moscow is buzzing. Do you know he’s in Lefortovo?” Dominika didn’t answer.

  “What did you say to your uncle when you called Moscow?” said Nate. His tone was flat, unemotional. Dominika’s stomach felt heavy, weighted.

  “Neyt, Benford doesn’t want us to speak of this. He was quite clear.”

  “The cables said you called your uncle. You said that we had been together. The cables said that I had told you about the mole I handled in Moscow. Who told you to say that?” Nate stood sullenly, his hands by his sides, his color pulsing. “Do you know that your call probably got Korchnoi arrested? What did you say to Egorov?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dominika said, confused, frightened. She felt the rage building, more so because it was Nate telling her these things. She needed to ask him once. “Do you believe I would knowingly do such a thing?” asked Dominika.

  “So you didn’t know? It’s all in the cable traffic,” said Nate.

  “I don’t care what is in the cables,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Do you believe I would harm him, this man?” She remembered Benford’s instructions to say nothing.

  “When you didn’t call me, when you went into hiding, I thought it was for security. But how could you have agreed to betray the general? Your call to Moscow was the trigger.”

  Dominika could only stare at him. “Did Benford tell you to do this?”

  Nate ran his fingers through his hair. “You followed orders, you bought the plan. Whatever the goal, your placement as prime agent is assured. Congratulations.” Purple and emotion, lava running downhill.

  “What are you talking about?” said Dominika. “I did not sell anyone.”

  “Well, Korchnoi is in Lefortovo, thanks to your call. You’re now number one. He’s lost.”

  “You think I did this?” Dominika said. “You cannot speak to me this way.” She wanted to scream, but instead spat the words out in a whisper. “After all we have gone through, after all that is between us.” Dominika did not permit herself to cry.

  “That’s not going to help Korchnoi now,” said Nate. He straightened and turned toward the apartment door. She could stop him with a word, a half dozen sentences of explanation, but she would not. The door closed on his luminous rage.

  Forsyth had to restrain Dominika when Benford told her that her scripted phone conversation with Uncle Vanya had indeed directly resulted in the arrest of Korchnoi. “How dare you use me in this,” spat Dominika as she pulled against Forsyth’s arms. He steered her to an armchair and continued standing between her and Benford, while she gripped the arms of the chair. “You used me like a common donoschik, an informer.” She made to get up again, but stopped when Forsyth put up his hand.

  “You’re all so smart, you could not think of anything better than this?”

  Benford was pacing in the living room, trailing a dark-blue cape of deceit. The sea breeze blew through the balcony doors. “We made a decision, Dominika,” said Benford. “I will tell you that Volodya conceived the plan, he insisted on it. For him it was the culmination of his career as an agent. He had you spotted and elected and prepared as his successor before you got out of Lefortovo. He would be satisfied now.”

  Dominika’s hands gripped her chair. “You will let him die to continue the secrets? Is the stupid information more important to you than this man?” She got up and paced the room, her arms around her stomach, her hair in all directions.

  “The stupid information is, in fact, the point of what we do. We all sacrifice to play the Game. No one is immune,” said Benford.

  Dominika looked at Benford and with great force swatted a lamp on the side table to the floor, shattering it on the marble. “I asked you if the information was more important than the man, than Vladimir Korchnoi,” said Dominika, shouting. She was looking at Benford as if she were ready to sink her teeth into his neck. Forsyth was shocked at her fury. He moved a half step toward her in case she launched.

  “To tell you the truth,” said Benford, looking first at Forsyth, then at Dominika, “no. But we have to move forward. It is now more important than ever for you to return. That is the task at hand right now.”

  “More important than ever? You make me responsible for killing this man. You have maneuvered me into this position. If I refuse, knowing what you made me do, the general’s sacrifice will have been wasted.” She pivoted and started pacing again. She looked at them through narrowed eyes. The hem of her dress shivered as her body trembled. “You are no better than they are.”

  “Compose yourself. There is no time for this,” said Benford. “Volodya would tell you the same. You now have to prepare to return to Russia. We must take advantage of the situation. Cultivate your fame as the officer who identified the mole, who passed the critical information that resulted in his arrest. You must exploit the credit within your service.” Benford’s halo was as blue as an alpine lake. He was concentrating, nervous, anxious.

  “Khren,” said Dominika, “bullshit. You did not tell me the truth. I never would have agreed to this.”

  No one spoke. They were in the living room, motionless, looking at one another. Forsyth watched Dominika’s breathing slow, saw her hands unclench, her face relax. Was she going to go along? Benford broke the silence.

  “We have to move quickly,” he said. “Dominika, are you in agreement? Can you accept this?” Dominika straightened her shoulders.

  “No, Benford, I will not accept this, I cannot.” She looked over at Forsyth. “I am a trained intelligence officer in the SVR,” she said. “I am familiar with the Game. I know about sacrifice, about doing gadkiy mery, repulsive things, for operational advantage.” She looked at them both. “But there are things more important than duty. Respect and trust. Between colleagues and partners. You require it from me; why should I not require it from you?”

  “I want you
to keep in mind that this situation is what Volodya wanted. I would not want to contemplate wasting his courage,” said Benford, feeling the sand slipping between his fingers.

  Dominika looked at the two men for a beat, then turned and went into her bedroom, closing the door softly. Not good, thought Forsyth. He turned to Benford.

  “You think she’s left us?” he said.

  “Fifty-fifty,” said Benford tiredly, leaning back on the sofa. “We don’t have much more time. If she’s going back, she’s got to decide in the next day. MARBLE was convinced she’d agree. I don’t want to think of the flap on our hands if we’ve let MARBLE get the chop for nothing, if she refuses to go back inside.”

  “But that’s not all,” said Forsyth, “is it?”

  “You tell me,” said Benford.

  “You’ve got one final card in your hand. Something that will convince her to continue.”

  “I dislike the metaphor. This is not a game of chance.”

  “Sure it is, Simon,” said Forsyth. “It’s all about chance.”

  Benford sat on a couch under a potted linden tree in the atrium of the König von Ungarn Hotel in Vienna, in an angle of the Schulerstrasse behind St. Stephen’s. Benford had returned after an amusing half hour at the Bristol Hotel with the SVR’s Line KR chief, Alexei Zyuganov, who had appeared wearing an inexplicable felt snap-brim hat. He was accompanied by a dark-complected young man from the Russian Embassy. Over a glass of Polish vodka and a small plate of sweet-sour cucumbers, Zyuganov continued to profess ignorance of the bloodbath in Athens. He had refused to speak of Vladimir Korchnoi other than to repeat that he was guilty of treason. He insisted that Benford press the Greek government for the immediate release of Egorova to the Russian Embassy in Athens.

  Benford with a straight face told Zyuganov that the Greeks were being obstreperous and were not only interrogating Egorova about the death of the former Spetsnaz officer in the Grande Bretagne Hotel, but also insisting that she participate in a press conference about all her activities in exchange for a lighter prison sentence. Zyuganov sat up straight and again insisted that Egorova be released, at which point Benford made his proposal. A half hour later a vibrating Alexei Zyuganov left the Bristol abruptly, without paying for his brandy. That’s all right, thought Benford. They’re paying for it more than they could imagine.

  In his Kremlin office, the blue eyes blazed and the Cupid’s-bow mouth turned up a fraction. The politician in him instantly saw the benefit in the Americans’ proposal. The former KGB functionary in him appreciated the operational expediency. But the strongman bent on consolidating absolute power in his retooled Russian Empire would not accept second place, not even with these stakes. Zyuganov stood in the wood-paneled Kremlin office with head bowed as his president spoke softly into his ear, a paternal hand on the dwarf’s little shoulder.

  BRISTOL HOTEL CUCUMBER SALAD

  Peel and seed halved cucumbers and slice thinly. Finely chop red onion and one chili pepper. Mix in bowl with white cider vinegar, salt, pepper, sugar, dill weed, and a drop of sesame oil. Serve chilled.

  40

  Benford, Forsyth, and Gable were in Athens Station. They sat at one end of a scarred conference table in the secure room—a thirty-foot Lucite trailer on Lucite legs inside a larger host room, under the harsh light of the fluorescent tubes arrayed on the top of the trailer. Their coffee mugs added fresh heat rings to the numerous old ones along the table. Nate was down the hall, in the infirmary, some stitches were coming out.

  “It’s going to be quite a scene if DIVA doesn’t agree to return,” said Gable. “The Russians will be so pissed they’ll shoot MARBLE out of spite.” Benford put a satchel on the table and unclipped the clasps on the flap. He turned to Gable.

  “You will be pleased to hear that you have just been elected to convince DIVA not to defect, but to return inside, and in harness,” said Benford. “Apart from our young superstar out there, she respects you the most. You are the only one she calls, what is it, bratwurst?”

  “Bratok,” said Gable. “It means ‘brother.’ ”

  “I see. Well, brother, she views me as having betrayed her, and by extension the entire CIA. For operational reasons we do not want to involve Nash too closely—besides, there is a fatal strain thanks to the ill-advised physical interaction between the two.” He looked at Forsyth and then pointedly at Gable. “That is why I am entrusting this infinitely delicate part of the operation to you,” said Benford. “Bratok, get DIVA to agree.”

  Benford opened the satchel and turned it upside down. Papers and glossy black-and-white photographs spilled onto the table. Forsyth stacked them and looked at each one in turn, then passed it over to Gable. The glossies showed a rural river, smooth and slow, with a slash of foam over a weir and above it a two-lane highway bridge on concrete abutments, light poles with curving arms along the railing. Castles on either side of the river, one with a square tower, the other crenellated and squat. Rude little houses along the river and sooty apartment blocks in the distance against a gray sky. Articulated trucks with canvas tops were stacked up in a line on the bridge.

  “The Narva River Bridge,” said Benford, pointing at one of the photos. “On the right, Russia. On the left, the West, if that’s what you want to call Estonia.” He spun another photo around. “Control station. This crossing is quiet, mostly trucks, very slow. Petersburg is one hundred thirty klicks north.” Benford tapped the photo. “This is where she’ll cross.”

  “Why are we doing this?” asked Gable. “The Greeks could escort her to the airport and put her on a plane. She would be home in three hours.” Benford studied one of the photographs, then finally answered.

  “To use one of Forsyth’s unfortunate gambling metaphors, we have broken even, more or less. On one hand, thanks to MARBLE, we have neutralized a mole in Washington. On the other hand, we have sustained the grievous loss of MARBLE. In exchange, DIVA has, we hope, immensely advanced her standing. I might add,” he said, sipping his coffee, “that we were extremely lucky in that DIVA and Nash escaped mortal injury at the hands of that Spetsnaz assassin.

  “For me, the one unsatisfactory aspect in all this is the ultimate price paid by a courageous old man. I tried to reason with him to continue as before, to avoid precipitate action, but he was adamant. He sensed his time was short.” Benford looked at the faces around the table, then began shuffling through the photos again.

  “I refuse to let it go at that,” Benford said, lightly slapping the satchel on the table. “I want to address the one outstanding issue.”

  “The one issue?” asked Forsyth.

  “MARBLE. I intend to get him back. He’s earned his retirement,” said Benford. It was quiet in the bubble. The rush of forced air coming through the Lucite vent was the only sound in the room.

  Gable shook his head. “There’s the small matter of his current status. Arrested Western spy,” he said. “There’s no work-release program in Lefortovo.” Forsyth stayed quiet; he saw what was coming.

  “I believe the Center will be glad to exchange MARBLE,” said Benford.

  “Exchange?” said Gable. “Who do you propose—”

  “DIVA. They want her back badly enough to let MARBLE walk. It never would have happened with Stalin, or Andropov, but this is the new Russia. Putin is concerned about his image at home and abroad. DIVA knows a secret—several secrets—that would cause him a lot of trouble domestically.”

  “The Russians will never agree,” said Gable. “They will never let MARBLE loose. They’ll be thinking about future traitors, loss of face, looking weak.”

  “Actually, they already have agreed. Putin will have ordered the Center to make the deal.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Gable. “You made a deal with the Russians for a spy swap without knowing for certain whether DIVA will agree to return?”

  “That is precisely why I am counting on you,” said Benford. “Besides, it is inconceivable that DIVA will continue to demur when she is told that
a decision on her part not to return will effectively annul the release of MARBLE by the Russians.”

  “Bitchin’ trump card,” said Gable. Benford looked up in annoyance. “That’s no way to motivate this woman to return to Moscow as our clandestine asset. I mean, if she resents us, resents our manipulation, she might simply pull the plug out of spite. It’ll be the last we hear from her.”

  “I expect you to vitiate the negative aspects of our manipulation of her. Motivate her anew. Sit with her and prepare her for internal handling. Emphasize that she alone holds the key to MARBLE’s freedom,” said Benford.

  “Vitiate the negatives, got it. All right. I’ll go out to Glyfada in an hour,” said Gable.

  “We have a deadline,” said Benford. “I told the Russians we’re in a hurry. We have days, hours left.”

  “Narva,” said Gable. “Estonia. Jesus wept.”

  The two Georgians stood at attention in Zyuganov’s office, looking at a spot on the wall above the dwarf’s head. They were midgrade chistilshchiki, mechanics from SVR Department V, the Wet Works, the inheritors of General Pavel Sudaplatov’s Administration for Special Tasks, which had eliminated the Soviets’ enemies at home and abroad for four decades. Zyuganov read from a just-received report from a Greek police informant. The thugs left.

  Zyuganov then called for Lyudmila Tsukanova. She entered the office slowly, chubby, hesitant, looking at her polished brown shoes over an ample if doughy bosom cinched tight by a uniform jacket a size too small. Her brown hair was cut unevenly and quite short. Her round Slav face was at first glance rosy with good health, but closer inspection revealed that the thirty-year-old woman suffered from rosacea. The red blotch on her chin looked painful.

  Ill at ease, Lyudmila sat and listened to Zyuganov speak steadily for more than half an hour. Uncomfortable as she appeared, Lyudmila’s black eyes, shark’s eyes, doll’s eyes, never left his face. When he was finished, she nodded and walked out of the office.