The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (30)

Your Chakra Is Showing

Dominika had arrived in Hong Kong several days earlier after a day of ceremonial courtesy calls in MSS Headquarters at the Ministry of State Security. General Sun stayed in Beijing for consultations, so Dominika was turned over to an English-speaking captain of the Guangzhou MSS office, named Yuán Chonghuan. He had chosen the inexplicable Western business name of “Rainy,” yu tien in Mandarin, which was phonetically close to Yuán and lyrical, or so he thought. Rainy Chonghuan was exceedingly short and thin, with all the built-in malignancies of the physical runt. He had the toxic temper of a low-level officer who one minute relishes mistreating subordinates, and shamelessly toadies to superiors the next. He had caramel-colored teeth and stubby fingers with nails bitten to the quick. The halo around his head and shoulders was caramel-colored too, the color you get when the yellow of conniving treachery mixes with the browns of sloth and envy. Dominika knew she had to be careful around him.

Colonel Dominika Egorova of the SVR was an alien being to Rainy—the leggy, busty Slav with the high cheekbones might as well have been from another planet. His English, learned at MSS Officer’s school, was just fluent enough to discuss strategy with her in the operation to trap the American. Rainy Chonghuan had, however, immediately seen that this Russian was held in high esteem by General Sun and MSS leadership, which meant he would butter her remorselessly. He moreover saw that she had long experience working American targets. Her suggested amendments to the entrapment-phase plan, including tweaking Zhènniǎo’s personal history to appeal to the Yankee’s operational instincts, were impressive. Anything that would ensure success and bring him credit and promotion was welcome. Rainy provided a translated copy of Zhènniǎo’s service docket for Colonel Egorova’s review, and suggested the two women meet to discuss nuances of the nectar bait. To his surprise, the Russian demurred, explaining that Sparrows in the Russian Service operated most effectively with fewer distractions. Rainy hurriedly agreed, complimenting the colonel on her foresight and wisdom.

Zhen Gao’s personnel file was fascinating to Dominika. The autobiography she had recited to Nate was mostly fiction, with some nuggets of truth. She had not lost her parents, she was not adopted, and she never went to hotel school. She was never taught yoga by a wizened yogini when she was twelve, she learned it only later, as a way to stay in shape and help her seduce targets.

Zhen Gao was the daughter of a minor State-school teacher from Anxin, in Hebei Province, on the reed-choked shores of Lake Baiyangdian. Already a stunning beauty at age sixteen, Zhen caught the eye of a provincial administrator who appraised the woman’s body under the schoolgirl’s smock. He used his influence to install the young girl as a housekeeper in a State-controlled villa, took her virginity, and occasionally shared her with other municipal jacks-in-the-office to curry favor. When Zhen was eighteen, the administrator was caught taking bribes and was tried, convicted, and executed for corruption. With no patron, and an undeserved reputation as a “pleasure girl,” she was sent to Tianjin, a teeming city of fifteen million on the northeastern coast two hours south of Beijing, and enrolled in State School 2112, a training academy run by the MSS that, the file obliquely explained, trained young women in “intelligence techniques,” which included seduction, elicitation, recruitment, and blackmail. Graduates were known as Yèyīng, Nightingales.

Based on academics, performance, and an assessment of ideological aptitude, a handful of Nightingales were chosen for continued study at Institute 48 in Beijing, a classified facility in the northeastern Shangjialou District where students were trained in the use of firearms, exotic weapons, and poisons. At age twenty, Zhen was sponsored by a storefront Sino-Anglo friendship society controlled by MSS for study in the United Kingdom, both to master English and to be exposed to Western ways. Four years later, she graduated as a full-fledged seductress-assassin of the State, known as a Zhènniǎo, the poison-feather bird. Because of her excellent English and British manner, Zhen was quietly placed in a cover position as assistant general manager at the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong, available for assignments as required.

Bozhe, thought Dominika, reading the file, a young girl defiled by a swine, passed around the pigsty, then forced into the Chinese version of Sparrow School. Her pulse raced as she read Zhen’s life history—it was like her own. But Russian Sparrows don’t kill people, Dominika told herself, but you have, haven’t you?

Throughout the second volume of the file, Zhen now was referred to as Zhènniǎo. Dominika asked Rainy what a poison-feather bird was, and he haltingly described the mythological bird, with coal-black plumage, that fed exclusively on serpents, and whose feathers as a result were highly poisonous. One could stir a glass of wine with a single such feather to make it mortally toxic, he said. Only in China, thought Dominika.

The file documented fourteen assassinations credited to Zhènniǎo—the most recent being a drug-dealing Burmese police chief who had been poisoned with a distillate of the monkshood bloom. There had been no witnesses and no blowback connection to Beijing. Dominika turned to a pharmacological annex in the file that listed monkshood as a poisonous plant that produces aconitine, a lethal tetrodotoxin readily absorbed through the skin. Even slight contact with the delicate, purple bell-shaped flower would, between two and eight hours later, induce cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular tachycardia, ventricular fibrillation leading to respiratory paralysis or cardiac arrest. Zhènniǎo had applied the poison on the skin of the police chief blended with ylang-ylang, a fragrant essential oil used in aromatherapy.

As she watched Zhen’s Kundalini demonstration on the surveillance monitor—the entire apartment was covered by cameras and microphones in the fixtures, woodwork, and ceilings—Dominika’s heart stopped when she heard Zhen tell Nate her perfume was called ylang-ylang. That’s how they would do him. Zhen would dab him with fragrant oil spiked with the monkshood toxin during some yoga tryst, which would kill him by the next morning.

Would Nate sense the danger? Why would he? He was an operations officer on the hunt, intent on recruiting a beautiful Chinese girl. Benford and CIA had no idea of the threat; they couldn’t warn him. Dominika herself was in a screamingly perilous position. She couldn’t call CIA; she was in China. She couldn’t throw a package over the wall of the US Consulate as it was surrounded by MSS lookouts. She was constantly accompanied by MSS escorts, and the diminutive Rainy Chonghuan was always at her side. They had put her in a luxurious guest apartment one floor up, directly above this one, which Dominika had no doubt, was also humming with multiple digital microphones and lenses, making it exceedingly risky to try to leave the building and somehow make street contact on the fly with Nate who, she also assumed, was under MSS surveillance.

If she acted to save Nate and made a mistake, the Chinese would report it to the Kremlin, and she would be lost. Dominika had tried to send Nate subtle warnings. She had advised the MSS that Zhen must not seem overly inquisitive, and ask no personal questions, the mark of an intelligence officer. She recommended that Zhen downplay her UK university years by simply saying they were paid for by a “scholarship.” Dominika told her hosts it was “safer to be vague,” but in reality these were inconsistent notes that she hoped would be the silent dog whistle in Nate’s head to get him to start smelling a trap. She also strongly advised that Zhen should mention Fernando’s Restaurant in Macao to shock the American into blurting something actionable, really knowing it would be a premature and aggressive note, sure to alarm Nate. She feared these would be too subtle, too diffuse warnings. Would Nate pick up on them? She couldn’t try any more subtle sabotage, for the Chinese were too smart. Dominika didn’t know how else to confound MSS plans to kill Nate.

Grace had invited Nate back to her apartment for a home-cooked meal, in repayment for the dinner at the China Club. She opened the door, smiled, and pulled him by the hand into the apartment. She wore a beige shirtdress that came to midthigh, with floppy sleeves rolled up past the elbows. She briefly pressed up against him—he could feel the softness of her breasts under the shirt—and kissed him lightly. She padded barefoot through the living room—the air was thick with ylang-ylang—around the corner, and into a small but modern kitchen done all in white tile and stainless steel. On the counter were a number of ingredients, and a small black-handled Chinese cleaver.

“I’m making a Burmese tomato salad,” said Grace. “The word for salad in Burmese is ‘lethoke.’ It means mix by hand.”

“Were you ever in Burma?” said Nate. “What’s it called now?”

“Myanmar,” said Grace. “Only as a tourist. But a Burmese woman there taught me how to make the salad. Her name was Kyi Saw.” Grace chopped the ingredients skillfully, whisked lemongrass vinegar, canola oil, and fish sauce, then fried sliced onions and garlic in a small pot of oil. Nate watched how she moved effortlessly around the kitchen, her hands quick and deft. She assembled the salad in a large wooden bowl, lightly tossed it with her hands until everything was incorporated, and handed Nate a fork. He tried a thin slice of tomato. The taste was salty, sweet, and pungent, with a slight crunch of crushed peanuts.

“This is really delicious,” he said. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

Grace leaned on the counter and looked sideways at him. “I think they serve a version of the salad at a restaurant in Macao,” she said. “It’s a little restaurant on the beach called Fernando’s. We should go there sometime, and I’ll show you.” Nate kept his face neutral. Don’t like the sound of that at all, he thought. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not.

“Sounds like fun,” said Nate. They brought plates of salad out to the balcony and ate while looking at the harbor and the scudding clouds in the night sky blushing pink from the city lights. “I find it inconceivable that this vibrant city was actually returned to China, and is now under the thumb of Beijing,” said Nate. “Do you think the spirit of Hong Kong can survive?”

“The people here are trying, resisting and demanding their rights. But I do not know if they will succeed,” said Grace.

“I know the rest of the world hopes they will succeed,” said Nate.

“So do I,” said Grace.

“It would be a worthy effort, to help Hong Kong stay free,” said Nate. “Something with meaning.” He stopped and came off the gas, putting it in neutral, not wanting to overdo the theme. They could come back to it; at the right moment, Nate could tell her specifically how she could help. Work for CIA.

“I could see that,” said Grace. “Right now I devote myself to the hotel, nothing else. And yoga is my only escape.”

“I have to be honest with you,” said Nate. “When you showed me that Kundalini Awakening, I was a little startled, scared even. I didn’t know what had happened to you.”

Grace laughed. “Do you want to learn a little more? I can tell you about the chakras, the energy points in your body. They’re very important; they control everything,” said Grace. Okay, stud, keep this under control.

Nate so far had kept things platonic, despite the black bra and the arched back, and the cursory kisses. He could imagine Benford’s reaction if it became known that he had recruited Grace Gao by bedding her; it would be an affirmation of Benford’s lingering belief that Nate should no longer be employed by CIA. He had not dwelled on it in some time, but now Nate contemplated what a nightmare it would be if he got kicked out of the Agency, and returned home to Richmond, Virginia, where his family all along had brayed that Nate wouldn’t make it as a spook, never mind that his downfall took ten years and not two, as they had predicted. So how do you handle this Chinese beauty who wants to show you her chakras?

They sat on the floor facing each other, cross-legged, knees nearly touching. Grace took the wide copper bowl off one of the altar tables, put it on the floor beside them, and struck the rim lightly with a small wooden dowel. The bowl gave off a clear, smooth note like the chime of a grandfather clock. “Singing bowl,” said Grace, “to clear your mind.” She ran the dowel around the lip of the bowl, which began a pulsing hum that grew into a second bullfrog tone overlaying the first. She stopped stroking the bowl, and the tones slowly faded. She shifted herself slightly forward so their knees touched.

“There are seven chakras in your body, and they all represent different emotions,” said Grace. She took a small bottle out of her dress pocket, unscrewed the cap, and tilted it forward to wet the tip of her finger. The dizzying fragrance of ylang-ylang enveloped them, and Grace dragged her fingertip along the sides of Nate’s neck, on the undersides of his wrists, and on his ankles. “The oil will help you relax,” she said.

She touched the top of his head. “This is the seventh chakra, the violet chakra, the crown, which brings bliss.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

“This is the sixth chakra, the indigo chakra, the brow, which controls intuition.” She kissed his eyelids.

“The fifth, blue, the throat for healing.” She moved lower and nuzzled his throat with her lips. Jesus, she’s heading south, is there a Captain Picard chakra?

“The fourth, green, the heart for love.” Grace unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest.

“The third, yellow, the solar plexus for purpose.” Her lips grazed his stomach.

“The second, orange, the spleen for desire.” She ran her fingers around his navel.

Grace moved her hand between Nate’s legs and underneath his body, pressing up through his khakis on the fleshy pad of his perineal muscle. “The first, the root chakra, red, controlling passion,” she said. She kept her fingers there, and looked into his eyes.

At a time like this, with Grace’s ylang-ylang-infused fingers pinpointing his first chakra, Nate unaccountably and psychotically flashed to Kramer, his case officer–colleague in Vienna, who once told him that the perineum was commonly called the “taint” because “t’aint your balls, and t’aint your butt.” Nate wondered what that nugget was doing now. He shook himself as Grace removed her hand.

“And when you awaken Kundalini,” said Nate, trying not to squirm, “these chakras do what, exactly?”

“The energy expands from the root chakra, like an uncoiled snake, up the spine to the head, like an electrical current. It brings a profound consciousness.”

“I can feel mine expanding as we speak,” said Nate. Grace scooted forward to sit on Nate’s folded legs, and wrapped her legs around his back. She put her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. They were inches apart, from noses to crotches, and Nate could feel her body heat, like sitting too close to a woodstove.

“This is called Yab Yum, sitting like this,” she said. “The union of wisdom and compassion.” She took his hand, pressed it on her heart, and held it there. “Can you feel my heart? Let me feel yours.” They sat motionless, eyes closed, hands on each other’s hearts, foreheads lightly touching. “Now we cannot move for a thousand years until we achieve Samadhi,” she said.

“Samadhi—whatever that means—is going to happen sooner than that,” said Nate. “I’m just warning you.”

“Stop talking,” she said. “Samadhi is a state of mind. Concentrate.” Nate felt her breath deepen, and her heartbeat slowed, and he could hear it in his head, and he could feel his own heartbeat exactly matching hers. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heels hooked softly into his back. Nate suddenly felt a lightness in his pelvis, his legs, his spine, and his arms. A loud rushing noise filled his head, as if he were in an underground grotto above a thundering waterfall. The lightness moved into his head, behind his eyes, and under his tongue.

“Do you feel it?” whispered Grace. Nate nodded. “Samadhi is wonderful,” she said. “It can carry you, carry you over mountains, and across the oceans. What is over the ocean for you, Nate? What is in your heart?”

“A woman far away,” he said, his eyes still closed, marveling at the feeling in his brain, and at his answer, which just popped out of his mouth before he could think. Grace shifted closer to him, her arms around his neck.

“Breathe with me,” she said, inhaling deeply. She put her mouth on his and started inhaling and exhaling into his mouth, surrounding him in hot velvet and electricity. Her breath controlled his breath. She rocked slightly and leaned forward, so their expanding stomachs touched. Grace whispered into his lips.

“Who else is in your heart?” she said. Nate thought of Agnes in Palos Verdes, and Hannah killed, and white-haired General Korchnoi murdered, and Gable gone, and Benford, Forsyth, and Burns who were his colleagues and family, and the bucket-headed image of PLA General Tan, that profligate beetle whom Nate had just recruited, and he almost said his name out loud. Shit, what is this?

Nate, struggling, blinked three times, very quickly, and she knew she had lost him, at least for now. She moved back slowly, sliding off him.

Dominika sat in the armchair, legs crossed, squeezing her thighs together, sweating. She had forced herself to sit still as she watched the monitor and imagined the feel of Nate’s body pressed against Grace in Yab Yum, and her lips tingled imagining those kisses. Thank God she didn’t have to hide an orgasm, sitting a meter from the appalling Rainy Chonghuan, who was watching the screen with his mouth open. She had panicked when Grace had dabbed Nate’s neck with fragrant oil, but she realized this was not the assassination night.

That last kiss. She was astounded by Grace’s apparent skill in dragging Nate into a meditative state, something she knew she could never do. Strangely she was not mad at him—seeing him after all these months on a high-resolution screen was a shock, and she felt a million kilometers away. She knew he had not planned for this to happen, that he was working on the Chinese woman, and it was she who had initiated the contact. To be sure, Dominika would break a vase over his head when (if) she saw him next, but she realized she still loved him; he had said he loved a “woman far away,” which she knew meant her. She was the first person he thought about from his Yab Yum–addled subconscious. Oh, how this espionage got in the way of their lives.

But right now jealousy, pique, longing, and horniness were superfluous. Dominika didn’t know if Nate could resist the mind-warping blandishments of this gorgeous Chinese girl, but she knew that whether or not the MSS pried the name of Nate’s agent out of him, they would very soon reach the point where they would give Zhen the order to eliminate him. He was a beetle in a matchbox and they were going to step on him.

Rainy Chonghuan watched the screen as Grace said good night to Nate at the front door to the apartment. He ordered the technicians to shut down the surveillance monitors and microphones, and turned to Colonel Egorova.

“You can see Zhènniǎo is extensively trained and meticulously prepared,” he said. “She uses the mystical aspects of this yoga to manipulate her targets, to employ tao qu de zuo fa, elicitation methods. If she succeeds, it will happen next time. If at the conclusion of the next contact the American does not reveal the name of the mole, the order to eliminate him will be given.”

“You know your operation best,” said Dominika, casually, wondering if there was a wet spot on the back of her skirt. “But eliminating the American now seems premature. Your girl is making good progress. You could potentially learn additional secrets from this officer about CIA operations in China.”

Rainy shrugged. “Beijing insists,” he said. “She will invite him for another dinner in two days, and we shall see what happens. Zhènniǎo will stay in this apartment from tonight, in case the American becomes lonely and amorous, and decides to visit unannounced.”

“And how will you eliminate the target?” said Dominika.

Rainy Chonghuan showed a muddy riverbank smile. “Zhènniǎo is an expert with firearms, edged weapons, the rope, and a variety of classical weapons. She is also expert in hand-to-hand combat. Her knowledge of poisons and toxins is encyclopedic,” said Rainy. “The requirement, as in most cases such as this, is to mask the hand of the Service. She will choose the appropriate method.”

“It doesn’t sound like she will have any trouble,” answered Dominika, suddenly overwhelmed. The lingering terror waiting for her back in Moscow if she were exposed by the mole in Washington came back to her suddenly. Both she and Nate were teetering on the knife-edge of ruin.