The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (33)

Snaggletooth

Dominika’s return from China—rumors of her secret commission to Beijing had the siloviki (except Gorelikov and FSB Chief Bortnikov) frantic with envy and trepidation—coincided with the announcement of her promotion to one-star general and to the post of Director of the SVR. Chubby, jowly faces clustered around her after the Security Council meeting to congratulate her, enveloping her in an impossibly cloying miasma of competing colognes underlaid with the earthy fear-sweat of officials who had millions squirreled away in overseas accounts. It, therefore, was important to establish good relations with this shlyukha, this former trollop, who now had the organizational means and authorities to investigate foreign bank accounts whenever Vladimir Vladimirovich ordered it. Beefsteak hands with manicured nails and pinky rings pumped her hand and yellow halos quivered above their yellow smiles, interspersed by the rare blue crowns of the few pragmatic thinkers on the Council, the occasional gazelles who roamed among the muddy-flanked buffaloes. The thinkers had a low survival rate in the jungles of the Kremlin.

The official promotion ceremony took place the following week in the gilded Andreyevsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace, in front of the forty-foot curved gold filigreed doors, above which the black double-headed eagle of the Russian Federation stood guard, wings outspread, the orb and scepter in its talons. The relics represented God’s dominion over the Earth, and the monarch’s benevolent and just rule over his people. Dominika contemplated the towering irony of benevolence and justice in modern Russia as the president approached her to pin the Order for Merit to the Fatherland, First Class, on the lapel of her forest-green tunic, the military uniform the service chiefs wore to ceremonial events to reflect their flag ranks. Dominika hated the baggy cut of the double-breasted jacket, the stiff epaulets, and the straight-line green skirt, more suitable for a librarian or a wedding magistrate’s clerk. The clunky black service shoes, she couldn’t even look at.

“Pozdravlyayu, General,” said Putin, looking into her eyes. Felicitations. His fingers lingered while pinning the medal on her lapel, solicitously smoothing the hanging claret ribbon, brushing with knowing fingers the start of the swell of her left breast. Dominika idly wondered if there was an ornate general’s belt buckle to be awarded next, that would present additional opportunity for the president to smooth the folds of her uniform skirt.

“Thank you, Mr. President, I will continue to serve the Rodina with all my energies,” said Dominika, standing at what she imagined was a semblance of attention. Putin’s azure halo pulsed once, and he gave her an olive oil smile that unambiguously transmitted, no, serve me with all your energies, stuff the Rodina, as he shook her hand and stepped sideways to the other medal recipient, a twenty-seven-year-old champion rhythmic gymnast, who was retiring from the sport and had been named as a district organizer for Yedinaya Rossiya, the United Russia Party—the government’s party that controlled 75 percent of Parliamentary seats. Dominika wondered how she had qualified for that position. The president turned back to Dominika after laboriously pinning a sports medal on the blushing gymnast.

“I look forward to hosting you at the reception at the cape in several days,” said Putin, leering. Dominika wondered if her dacha was wired for sound and video, and if the president had a key to the front door. Stupid questions.

“I will be there, Mr. President. Thank you for the invitation. And I must thank you again for use of the dacha. It’s quite beautiful.”

Putin nodded. “The view of the sea from that particular dacha is second only to the view from the master apartment in the main house,” he said as if he were selling shares in a Ponzi scheme.

Dominika smiled. “I have no doubt of that,” she said, noncommittally. She was not going to stick out her chest, wet her lips, and tell him she couldn’t wait to compare the two views. How to keep a suspicious, covetous, and randy despot’s hands off you for two or three days without incurring his wrath, or worse, embarrassing him regarding performance issues? There were bawdy rumors on the streets of Moscow that Dimitri Medvedev, Putin’s diminutive prime minister, a protégé who had switched leadership positions with Putin as a way to satisfy term limits laws, was better endowed and, well, more feral than his supposedly ubervirile patron. Medvedev’s nickname from those years was Nano President, but the mere thought that Putin was not the rampant alpha wolf among the whole pack could not be remotely contemplated. “Until then,” said the president before moving off. She felt footsteps coming up behind her.

“Congratulations, Director,” said a smiling, jubilant Gorelikov with a flourish. “You’ve earned this honor, and we will accomplish great things in the coming months.” Great things, to be sure, thought Dominika. Disrupting democracies, suborning innocents, enabling cloven-footed surrogates, maybe start the next world war. But Anton was reveling in the possibilities now that his ingénue, his creation, had landed the big job. “With the announcement of your new position, I took the liberty of transferring your belongings to your new penthouse on Kutuzovsky Prospekt. You’ll find it elegant and quite comfortable.” How kind and thoughtful. The courteous favor was an opportunity for Gorelikov’s team to rummage through her belongings. Bozhe, thank God I buried my broken SRAC equipment before I left. “The penthouse belonged to Andropov before he became First Secretary,” beamed Anton. Charming. I hope they’ve taken out the hospital bed and oxygen tanks since then. “Your daily schedule will naturally be taken up with more representational duties, starting tomorrow evening with a formal diplomatic reception in the Georgievsky Hall here in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Besides the embassies, there will be various delegations.” Dominika’s irrational first thought was that she had no dress for a formal reception. Gorelikov was a warlock, reading her mind.

“Dominika, I also took the quite outrageous liberty of putting a selection of evening dresses in your closet,” said Anton like a valet, “but I must apologize in advance for my utter lack of style. I hope at least one of them will suit.” The elegant Gorelikov, dressed today in an exquisite gray flannel suit of British cut, a white spread-collar shirt, and a black knit tie, would have chosen, Dominika had no doubt, elegant, expensive frocks in her exact size. Welcome to the club, thought Dominika. Now they’re dressing you like a doll.

“I’m sure they will be quite lovely, thank you,” said Dominika, her mind drifting. She knew Benford would hear about her long-anticipated promotion within a day: TASS and Pravda would carry the announcement, doubtless highlighting the fact that General Dominika Egorova was one of the highest-ranked women in the government. Modern Russia making great strides, thought Dominika, despite the unavoidable fact that the entire country was nothing more than a big petrol station with nuclear weapons and heaps of murdered dissidents.

The crowd made no move to disperse—no one arrived at a State function after the president and likewise no one departed before him—so Dominika continued speaking with Gorelikov, and they were soon joined by a mild and complimentary Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB, in a gorgeous powder-blue uniform with gold braid at lapels and cuffs. Bortnikov was a lieutenant general with three stars, after all. He shook hands with Dominika as he congratulated her, and his politely firm grip was dry and warm, his steady blue halo—matched by the equally steady aura above Gorelikov’s head and shoulders—hinted at reserve and good sense. Perhaps she could eventually count these two as true allies in this Kremlin maze. Then she remembered that this beneficent and reasonable grandfather had planned and authorized Litvinenko’s assassination in London. No one, but no one, was an ally.

Sidelong glances from the milling siloviki were ill disguised; nervous noses already had sniffed the air and tentatively identified a newly formed triumvirate—Gorelikov and the Directors of SVR and FSB, a potent cabal favored by the president himself. But Dominika remembered Benford’s warning when the subject of her becoming head of SVR first was raised: “You’ll be close to the top, but even as you become indispensable to Vladimir, so will you be considered a threat to his suzerainty.” Nate had to translate that word, but she knew he was right. From now on, her official life would be plagued with hidden tests, sly traps, and constant assessments of her loyalty. She grimly told herself that gutting the Kremlin for Benford, Nate, and Forsyth would be trebly satisfying from now on, as long as she survived.

The familiar heartache welled up in her breast. Where was Nate now? Would they let them see each other? She would have to pick a plausible foreign trip, her first as Director, to be able to meet with her CIA friends, and from now on she would have to contend with hovering aides and ever-present security personnel.

Dominika would be busy in the next weeks, and she would have to alter her mode of operating. She’d have to concoct a reason to go out alone without an escort, to put down a signal for a personal meet with Ricky Walters, and make arrangements for a foreign trip in the near future. That would take a few weeks to arrange. Dominika had a lot to pass to her handlers, and she desperately needed reliable, secure commo. She still hadn’t decided whether to tell Benford and Nate that she had saved Nate’s life in Hong Kong. But for now, she had to get ready for a party.

The Georgievsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace was an endless series of massive and ornately decorated coffered ceilings supported by spiraled-fluted marble columns at each pier, with intricate capitals and plinths, an ivory and gold arcade of dazzling opulence illuminated by colossal chandeliers hanging in a line from each dome, three, four, five, six of them, with galaxies of lights reflecting off the polished parquet floor inlaid with colored pieces of precious wood, set in patterns as complex as a Tabriz carpet from Persia. The room was filled to capacity with the boisterous Moscow foreign diplomatic corps, jostling and carrying flutes of champagne above their heads as they pressed through the throng. The oligarchs milled quietly in a corner, each wondering whether, when, and under what pretext their pre-Putin fortunes would be appropriated. The siloviki kept loose station around the president as he halfheartedly worked the crowd, dispensing an infrequent wry grin, or very rarely, a lopsided smile, which clearly he managed at a grave cost.

High-ranking Russian military officers from the army, navy, and air force stayed segregated in their herds, respectively green, navy, or light blue, like grazing herds of African antelope, the kudus apart from the sables, separate from the impalas. Dominika had known Gorelikov would stuff her closet with fabulous frocks. Two from Paris (a Vuitton and a Dior) and one from Milan (a Rinaldi), but she had worn the more demure Dior, a silk champagne-pink beaded floral-print gown with hourglass bodice, ruched waist, and low-cut plunge. Gorelikov steered her around the crowd, making introductions. She already knew the buffaloes on the Security Council and the secretary of the Council, dour Nikolai Patrushev, who stayed with her for a few minutes chatting, while looking down the front of her dress. Nikolai drifted off when Bortnikov eased up and kept Dominika amused for fifteen minutes whispering in her ear to point out the known and suspect foreign-intelligence officers from the respective embassies.

“That’s the German BND representative?” asked Dominika. “He looks like a godovalyy bychok, a breeder hog. He cannot be active on the street.” Bortnikov pointed to a thin man with white hair talking to a group of diplomats. “The American Chief of Station Reynolds, capable, cunning, and tricky,” said Bortnikov. “His officers are active on the street, but we have not detected their activities . . . yet.” Keep up the good work, Dominika telegraphed to the American.

Suddenly Gorelikov excused himself and made his way through the crowd, weaving his way around obstructions halfway down the length of the one-hundred-meter room. Russian naval uniforms had gathered at a doorway to greet another arriving group of a dozen foreign naval officers—Bortnikov whispered they were Americans, a US Navy delegation—and there seemed to be as much gold braid and as many chests full of ribbons on the Americans as on the Russians.

“What are they doing here?” asked Dominika.

Bortnikov shrugged. “Some fool discussions proposing joint naval cooperation against Somali and Malay pirates,” he said. “Patrushev has decided we do not have the time or the resources for such adventures, but we invited them anyway for appearances and to collect assessment data on these admirals. Some day we may face them in battle,” Bortnikov said, chuckling. Dominika watched as Gorelikov, Patrushev, and the Russian admirals stiffly greeted the American contingent, which was accompanied by the US ambassador and a phalanx of aides, including, to Dominika’s alarm, the youthful Ricky Walters, her case officer in Moscow for personal meets. Bogu moy, my God, if he saw Dominika would he have the wits to keep expressionless? She resolved not to go near the Americans for the entire evening, slightly incongruous behavior for the new Director of SVR, who would be expected to get right in the faces of US Navy visitors. The thought tickled an ancillary fact she could not retrieve.

Dominika kept quartering the room, “cutting the pie,” like they taught her a hundred years ago at the Academy, circling in the opposite direction, to stay away from the Americans, but to also keep them in sight. Could she dare scribble a note and try to slip it into Walters’s pocket? To say what? What if Gorelikov saw her? No. A thousand times no.

Gorelikov was certainly spending a lot of gratuitous time with the US Navy contingent, handing around flutes of champagne, raising his glass to toast the ranking officer of the group, the Chief of Naval Operations, but then he turned and toasted another admiral who Dominika saw was a mannish woman. Dominika eased through the crowd to get a closer look, and something stirred in her, the female admiral was familiar, somehow. She had smiled at a Gorelikov witticism, revealing uneven teeth. What was it? Gorelikov was recommending canapes from the tray of a passing waiter that featured an assortment of salaka, toasted brioche with herring and melted cheese. A snaggletooth. Twelve years ago. The Metropol Hotel. The GRU honey trap. The skinny naval student. The biter with the tooth. Her shoulder. She had never asked—or cared—about the result of the snap trap. It was possible, probable, that the blackmail did not take, for the historical success rate on honey traps was only 25 percent. If it did take, the Kremlin had been running a US admiral for more than a decade.

Then Dominika stopped, frozen like an idiot mannequin in the middle of the hall, jostled by partygoers under the blazing chandeliers, and felt her spine grow cold. The selection of the DCIA—Benford had written to her with the names of the candidates. This one here tonight had to be the naval admiral, Rowland. Her visit to Moscow on this delegation could mean nothing, but it could also mean much. The pieces tumbled in her head like a collapsed mosaic ceiling. Shlykov. Naval railgun. She knew who this was, and she knew why Gorelikov was toadying to her. Now all she had to do was get word back to Benford to find out whether MAGNIT liked herring on toast. With no commo she was mute and Benford was blind.

Gorelikov was sitting on a red velvet couch at the end of the empty hall with his feet up on a brocade chair, his tie loosened, and a flute of flat champagne on the floor beside him. Dominika sat at the other end of the couch. A few remaining waiters scurried about, collecting the last of the crockery from the twelve groaning buffet tables that had been spaced along the length of the hall. An army of cleaners would follow to polish the magnificent floor and to dust the interstices of the chandeliers.

“US naval officers are exceedingly adept in unfamiliar social situations such as tonight’s reception,” said Gorelikov, rubbing his eyes. “They receive schooling in diplomatic conversation and comportment, and handle themselves with confidence. Our senior officers are krestyane, peasants and plowmen, by comparison, hesitant to say anything for fear of revealing the color of the hulls of our ships. It’s positively Soviet, the way they act.”

Dominika wanted to work on him a little. “Back then they were all terrified of Stalin,” she said. “He purged the entire officer corps in the thirties.”

“Yes, but now? The president supports the armed forces.”

“Old habits fade slowly,” said Dominika, noncommittedly. “But who was the female admiral you were speaking to? She was the only woman in the bunch.” Gorelikov’s halo wavered, and Dominika listened for the deception.

“I don’t recall her name. She apparently is a science genius,” said Gorelikov, dismissively. “She is retiring soon, and doubtless will be offered seats on boards of defense contractors as a consultant. These admirals can manage little else in retirement.” Interesting. You don’t know her name or where she works, but it has not escaped your notice that she is retiring soon. Dominika forced herself to yawn, as her mind churned.

IF this admiral was the girl Dominika seduced twelve years ago at the Metropol, and IF Gorelikov had been successful in pitching her as MAGNIT, and IF New York–based illegal SUSAN was now undetectably meeting her, and IF she were selected and confirmed as CIA Director, the first thing Gorelikov and Bortnikov would ask from her would be the list of active recruited CIA sources inside Russia. DIVA/Egorova would be at the top of the list. A lot of ifs, but Dominika knew there was grave danger.

Why wasn’t Gorelikov telling her the admiral was MAGNIT? Professional covetousness? Orders from the president? Was she somehow suspected? No. They had specifically selected her to meet SUSAN on Staten Island. Were they waiting for her promotion and a further demonstration of loyalty? Perhaps.

Dominika continued to stay away from the US delegation. God knows what trouble would ensue if the admiral recognized her. After a day of liaison meetings with an uncooperative Russian Naval Command, the Americans would stop in London for two days, after which the admiral would return to Washington for more preliminary briefings, and to await the selection of the final candidate. Then congressional confirmation hearings. In no more than ten days Gorelikov would know who would be running CIA. Dominika frantically calculated if she’d have enough time to trigger a crash-dive meeting with case officer Walters to pass an urgent warning to Nate and Benford. Gorelikov, the prescient warlock, seemed to read her mind.

“Will you be flying down to the reception at the cape tomorrow with me? I’ve reserved the Falcon 7 before Bortnikov or Patrushev could claim it. We all have to fly separately; it’s a regulation.” This is a mild test, thought Dominika. Do I fly down with him, or show a little independence and go a few days later, try to make a meet with the Station in the meantime? No. You’ll never get rid of your new bodyguards, and you’ll never get through to the Station. Act naturally. You stick to Anton for now.

“I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t invited me,” said Dominika. “How many guests are expected?”

“Total over the four days, not more than two hundred,” said Gorelikov. “But you have your dacha and your privacy. The rest of us stay in the main house on the presidential wing, elegant, but nothing like your own sea view. You don’t get lonely by yourself?” Dominika knew Anton was not flirting.

“No, I do not become lonely,” said Dominika.

Gorelikov smiled. “I’m sure you will not be,” he said. You mean when Randy Vlad comes scratching, thought Dominika.

When Admiral Rowland was first invited to accompany the delegation to Moscow by the Chief of Naval Operations, she almost panicked and declined. For MAGNIT the mole to visit Moscow and rub elbows with the intelligence officers who were running her was sheer folly. A little more thought on the matter convinced Audrey that this trip would burnish her credentials for selection as DCIA, and that smooth Anton Gorelikov would ensure that no compromising contacts would be attempted. It would be enough for the Russians to see her across the ballroom, and to marvel at her cool nerve and audacity. She accepted the invitation to travel to Russia, sent a short message to SUSAN to inform the Center that she would be arriving, and packed her best uniforms.

After arriving in Moscow, Audrey stayed close to her colleagues, because she was still nervous about her security. After diplomatic pleasantries with Gorelikov and other officials at the Kremlin reception, Audrey assumed that would be the only contact with her handler, and the danger was past. She could finish her time in Russia, fly to London, then return to Washington to find out if she had been selected by POTUS as DCIA. It would be the most audacious penetration of an opposition service in the history of espionage.

She should have known better. The Russians could not resist the temptation to enter her Moscow hotel suite through the door of an adjoining room on the last night of her stay in the capital. The room was dark, and Audrey sat up in bed when the silhouette of Anton glided across the room, backlighted by city lights from the window. Without saying a word, he pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed, leaned close to her, and patted her hand.

“We are very glad to see you,” Anton said. “It has been too long. Are you well? Is contact with the woman in New York satisfactory?”

Audrey was astounded that Anton would take the risk of coming to her room. “Yes, yes. Everything is satisfactory,” said Audrey. “It’s insane coming here like this.”

Anton patted her hand again. “There is no way I could not have spent a few seconds with our most productive friend. We are very excited and expect the best of news regarding the selection process. As we speak, we are working on an enhanced communications plan for you if you are named Director.”

“Communications better be enhanced,” whispered Audrey. “You must not take any shortcuts. You sit here in Moscow reading the intelligence I send you while I run all the risks. And no more Washington meetings with those clods from GRU—I only want to meet with SUSAN from now on.” Too many risks, she thought. What if someone from the American delegation knocked on my door right now?

Gorelikov smiled. “We give you full operational discretion to accept or reject any plan or equipment. If you become Director, even meeting SUSAN will become problematic. We, therefore, are developing a computer-based messaging system that uses an extensive network of international servers, which I believe you know as the cloud. It is utterly undetectable and unbreakable. I’m sure you will approve.”

He paused for a moment. “We were wondering about another aspect if you are selected to the position. I do not mean to pry, but with a twenty-four-hour security detail, we must consider how we can manage your social activities discreetly.” Anton knew the day of reckoning had arrived. He was preoccupied with the security ramifications of MAGNIT’s particular sexual proclivities.

Audrey’s face hardened. She smoothed the sheet over her legs and stared at Gorelikov’s silhouette in the dark room. “I presume you are referring to my love life. Are you are telling me the days of our secret vacations abroad will end?” she said.

“Yes,” said Anton. “I suppose I am. I cannot imagine any other way forward.”

“That would be, in a word, unacceptable,” hissed Audrey in the dark. “I expect you to arrange a suitable alternative.”

The three-star admiral giving orders, thought Gorelikov. We’ve come a long way from the meek physicist with a daddy complex.

Anton leaned toward her solicitously. “Audrey, the security measures required of us if you become Director will multiply tenfold, and with them will come significant personal sacrifice. When your tenure at Langley ends, your personal, permanent vacation begins. You’ll have the money to do whatever you want.”

“Marvelous. And in the meantime? You’ll want me there for as long as possible, right? Some DCIAs have served five years. What do you propose I do all that time?”

“You could tend to your doll collection,” said Anton, using his hammer-and-sickle voice. “Those charming little china faces. They will all look on you from the shelves in your living room with approval of your professionalism and discipline.”

Audrey’s head came up. “You’ve been in my quarters? Tell me you’re bugging my fucking house.”

Prozreniye. Epiphany. It came in every agent’s career, the realization of exactly what the relationship amounted to, who was vassal and who was master. It was Audrey’s turn, tonight, in a pitch-black hotel room. “Whether your quarters are bugged or not is immaterial,” said Gorelikov without emotion. “You are one of the most prolific clandestine intelligence sources in the service of the Russian Federation. You are on the threshold of being Russia’s best American spy ever. What you want and what you do not want is unimportant. I require you to dedicate yourself without reservation and to remember the mission. If that means you must live for three years without putting your fingers in a Buenos Aires prostitute, then that is what you shall do.”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” said Audrey, her voice shaking.

“Of course I can, my dear,” said Gorelikov, pushing back his chair silently. “You belong to me.” He left through the connecting door, his steps muffled by the sour threadbare carpet.

Dominika’s new Moscow apartment was in the massive city block–long building on Kutuzovsky Prospekt with two outlandish neoclassical towers. The address—number twenty-six—had been the residence of Premiers Brezhnev and Andropov, and party ideologue Suslov. Building security bristled with cameras, controlled elevators, manned checkpoints, and twenty-four-hour valet and food service. Her black Mercedes was always ready for her in the underground garage. Could I tell my driver to follow a surveillance detection route? The penthouse had been beautifully remodeled in beige and brown, with luxurious bathrooms and a gleaming kitchen that Nate would love to cook in. Dominika looked at the outside private-line telephone on the sideboard. A suicidal overseas call to CIA’s SENTINEL number to blurt out her epiphany about MAGNIT would be recorded (at both ends), and she would be finished, but at least Benford would know. Likewise, crashing the gate of the American Embassy to spill the tale to COS Reynolds would forever burn her bridges. She’d become a permanent exile inside the embassy, living in one of the temporary apartments, a historical oddity like Hungarian Cardinal Mindszenty who took asylum in the US Embassy in communist Budapest for fifteen years. Dominika would grow old, the faded beauty giving Russian lessons to young American wives, unable herself to even walk outside in the chancery compound for fear of snipers. A fine end. She wouldn’t do that. Without time to make a personal meet, and with no SRAC, she had no way to communicate the intel that would save her life.

As she packed for the reception at the cape, she fingered the sports watch Nate had given her, the satellite beacon that would transmit an emergency signal requesting exfiltration. The beginning of a plan started percolating in her mind. Nate’s always trying to get me to defect. Okay, lover boy, come rescue me.