The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (36)

Gall, Not Cheek

SUSAN’s tardy relay of MAGNIT’s urgent warning about the CIA officer who would attempt to penetrate the president’s swanky party to contact the mole known as CHALICE was received in the Center, but was further delayed by the laborious special handling required of all incoming messages from illegals. It finally was forwarded from Yasenevo to the communications unit at Cape Idokopas, where it was read by Gorelikov with a mixture of alarm and triumph. He made a hurried inquiry with the security office: they still had time; the new art-restoration shift from Poland was arriving the next morning. He immediately convened an emergency executive meeting in the secure room of the commo shack with General Egorova of the SVR, Bortnikov of the FSB, and Patrushev of the Security Council.

“The szloba, the gall of these Americans, attempting this at the president’s compound,” said Bortnikov behind his blue halo. “I could understand it in Moscow, business as usual, but this is too much.”

Patrushev had no time for games. His own yellow halo of deceit and cruelty shimmered in the small gray room. He pointed his Cossack’s nose at Gorelikov. “Gall, not cheek. What is so complicated?” he said. “When the American arrives with the Polish contingent, it will be a simple matter to arrest him immediately. Let our colleagues here”—he nodded to Dominika and Bortnikov—“arrange a vigorous interrogation, determine the identity of this CHALICE, and settle the matter. The American and his mole can share a cell in the Black Dolphin, in Orenburg.”

Gorelikov had his courtier’s face on, so as not to offend. “I agree with you wholeheartedly, but if you would please indulge me for a moment.” He shot his French shirtsleeves absentmindedly, revealing magnificent cuff links of brushed silver and red coral. “I propose, for your consideration, a discreet alternative to immediate arrest and interrogation, as logical and proper a course of action as it might be. I posit that if we instead let the American roam freely during the three days of the president’s reception, under constant and strict surveillance, he is likely to attempt contact and unknowingly lead us directly to the individual we seek, the mole CHALICE.”

Bortnikov, whose FSB surveillance teams were prodigious, liked the idea. More credit for him and his agency if he could bag both the case officer and the mole. Dominika kept her face impassive, but internally she knew this diabolical ambush tactic could blow her out of the water in forty-eight hours. And she knew something else. It would be Nate Nash who would be coming from Washington; she knew him, and she was certain of it. As good as he was on the street, Nate could be kept under strict control by static surveillance following his every move around the presidential compound through long lenses that would be impossible to spot. If he made a beeline toward her, convinced that he was black, the game would be over.

Something didn’t make sense. How had MAGNIT learned of Nate’s mission? And where had the cryptonym CHALICE sprung from? She guessed the answer, but could not believe it. She had been doing this long enough, and knew Benford well enough, to come to the unspeakable conclusion that this was what the Americans called a barium enema, designed to flush out MAGNIT by using Nate as primanka, an expendable lure, dangling bait. A desperate gambit, sacrificing him.

How ironic it would be if Nate unwittingly was the engine of her compromise? Just about as ironic as what Dominika knew she had to do now. Gently, she thought, stay objective and kill this idea without offending Gorelikov or alerting the other two wet-muzzled wolves at the table.

She sat up straight, folded her elegant hands on the table in front of her, and looked them all in the eyes. “It is an inspired plan,” she said. “But as you all realize, the enemy of tradecraft is unnecessary complication. If something can go wrong on the street, it invariably will. You all know this. I do not wish to give the impression of negativity, but the list of potential pitfalls is significant.”

Dominika took a breath. “CIA case officers trained in denied-area operations are resourceful. This man coming tomorrow could elude our coverage and foil our plans. He could use disguises. He could distract our surveillance units while an unknown second confederate accomplishes their mission. He could have some infernal technical device—we all know how the Americans rely on their little black boxes—that could allow him to make contact with CHALICE under our noses, without ever approaching him. And worst of all, the CIA officer could detect coverage, abort his mission, and escape in the stealth aircraft MAGNIT reported was part of the plan, leaving us looking like fools, and worse off than before. Admittedly, gentlemen, these are all remote possibilities, but they are possibilities. Can we afford to risk coming up empty-handed?”

That is why I’m trying to persuade you tarakany you cockroaches, to arrest the man I love with all my heart, and allow me to be present when you beat him, and watch him thrown in prison to rot until he dies or is broken and ruined, because there’s nothing else I can do.

To the annoyance of Gorelikov and Bortnikov, Patrushev nodded. “I agree with Egorova,” he said. “Immediate arrest and interrogation. That is the only way to mitigate the risk. Are we all agreed? Or should we consult with the president?” No one wanted that—not in Putin’s current frame of mind—so it was agreed: the CIA officer would be arrested immediately. Dominika breathed a sigh of relief as her heart went cold and died.

Nate and Agnes flew on LOT, the Polish airline, from Warsaw to Bucharest, and then to Odessa. Three hungover apprentice art-restoration students from Warsaw were on the same flight. Bored officials at Customs and Immigration stamped Nate’s alias Polish passport without looking at it. Another hour flight on a Ukraine International Embraer 170 had them standing at the front portico of Gelendzhik Airport, waiting for the van that ferried staff and workers to Cape Idokopas. The soft subtropical breeze stirred Agnes’s skirt, and they smelled the salt air from the sea. Nate wore wire-rimmed glasses, jeans, and a T-shirt with “Warszawa” in letters across his chest, and they both carried small duffels. A surly Russian driver appeared in a wheezing UAZ minivan, and took them all careering down the M4 to Svetly, where they turned off the highway and got onto a meandering two-lane blacktop that wound its way downhill through pine-forested valleys scarred by limestone cliffs, steeply down toward the water past paltry villages at lonely crossroads—Divnomorskoye, Dzhankhot, Praskoveevka—and finally through the compound gate with a militsiya car on the side of the road, and more slowly now, past guardhouses and military jeeps parked in the trees, to stop at the front steps of a large dormitory-type building amid the pines. In the distance, the roof of the massive main palace loomed above the treetops. Agnes was calm and collected, Nate marveled; she was cooler than he was.

They lined up in front of a table to register, surrender their passports, and received security badges on lanyards for access to the compound and the work sites inside the mansion. A militiaman told a Polish student to put out his cigarette, and the young man pretended not to understand, blowing smoke in his general direction. The militiaman stepped toward the student to knock the cigarette and some teeth out of his mouth, but the subaltern barked at him in Russian to step back and “take his position.” Nate’s scalp moved as he saw other militiamen standing attentively, edging in, and looking specifically at him. Nate made an instant calculation about knocking a guard over and dashing for a door or window. But where would he go? There were hundreds of protective militia and Special Forces troops, plus two hundred SBP (Presidential Security Service) agents on the seventy-four-hectare compound. And God knew where Dominika was. He couldn’t sprint for her dacha and hide under her bed.

The Russians’ efficiency was chilling. How had his cover been undermined so quickly? Did this mean there was another mole inside Langley who knew about his mission? That could only mean Forsyth, Westfall, or that cue-ball maniac from maritime branch. Impossible. There was nothing that the Russians could have picked up from his alias documents, nothing about his Polish Art Academy cover story. Was it possible he was recognized from his first tour in Moscow? Some misstep at Customs in Odessa? No, not even the FSB were that good. Whatever the reason, he understood what was going to happen.

He leaned close to Agnes and whispered. “Something’s wrong, I think I’m blown. Stay away from me and stick with the students.”

Agnes didn’t budge, didn’t blink; she was every inch the top pro. “I’ll get clear and get you out if there’s any trouble,” she said. She looked at him with blazing eyes.

Nate snarled at her out of the side of his mouth while stepping away from her. “You’ll do no such thing. We rehearsed this. You lie low and work with the restoration team for two weeks, then fly home. Stay away from DIVA and her dacha, and stay off the beach. She knows enough to send MAGNIT’s name out in the boat. Understand?”

Agnes nodded. “I’ll follow your orders, but there’s one more thing,” she said. “I love you.” Nate looked at her for a long beat, trying to say it with his eyes. That white forelock, Jesus. He turned away.

The subaltern stood up, the signal. It was time. As the surprised students looked on sullenly, two militiamen stepped behind Nate and grabbed him tightly above the elbows, spun him around, and walked him through a door at the end of the dormitory lobby. He didn’t resist, husbanding his strength. Agnes didn’t look at him, and the last thing he saw as he was pushed through the door was that no one had seized her. Thank Christ. Nate was led down a manicured gravel path through a dense stand of pines, their fresh scent competing with the salt air. Nate thought he could see glimpses of water through gaps in the trees, but the militiamen yanked him straight whenever he looked to the side. At the end of the path, quite alone, deep in the forest, stood an ornate Russian log cottage with decorative fringe tracing the steep gables, a pair of casement windows with rustic diagonal muntins and a polished wooden door with wrought-iron hinge straps and a grated speakeasy. Fucking Hansel and Gretel. The guards opened the door and pushed him into a deep armchair upholstered in dark-green fabric. Nate looked around the spartan living room with a single couch and two end tables. A framed picture of Lenin hung on the wall in front of Nate, the unsmiling portrait of him while in exile, around age fifty, with the piercing stare, the goatee, the straight mouth without a trace of mirth or mercy.

The bare logs on the walls and along the pitched ceiling were light-colored and polished, their gleam lighting up the room in the afternoon light. This was a secluded guesthouse, or perhaps the personal quarters of some caretaker. The two militiamen stood on either side of the armchair and pushed him back down into the chair when he tried to get up, apologetically saying toileta. He wanted to look around the cabin for escape points, and to test the degree of free movement allowed him, but for now, no dice. Nate knew this was going to be hard or easy, a sophisticated interrogation or a basic police-level interview. He expected the latter, for starters. A lot was going to depend on his attitude, the mood and skill of the interrogators, what exactly they wanted to know, and the urgency of their inquiries. He planned on sassing them, pissing them off, and holding out for as long as possible.

Early in training, Nate had attended classes in interrogation—resisting it, not inflicting it. The instructor, an Argentine operator—with a perpetually flicking eyelid and improbably named Ramón Lustbader (named by his mother after silent-screen star Ramón Novarro) with an attitude worse than Gable’s—had told the class that the bottom line was that everyone eventually gave it up; it was just a matter of how long you put up with the pain or drugs. Classically, the goal was to hold out forty-eight hours, an artificial period ostensibly long enough for a blown asset or a compromised network of assets to exfiltrate, but that was largely outdated film noir, Cold War theatrics.

In actuality, Ramón said, it was the pain of physical punishment—and the ancillary techniques of sleep deprivation, starvation, and extremes of hot or cold—that broke prisoners. The mysterious and feared psychotropic drugs such as ethanol, sodium thiopental, amobarbital, and scopolamine that reportedly could compel prisoners to talk, and that could, after prolonged use, plunge the human brain to the cognitive level of one of the lesser apes, in reality did not compel subjects to begin blurting the truth. Rather, these drugs unlocked memories, reduced inhibitions, and heightened suggestive responses that could, in the hands of a skilled interrogator, prompt the blurting of desired information. Common sleeping gas at the dentist, nitrous oxide, had the same effect.

Lustbader’s eyelid pulsed as he lectured the class. “If you focus on a thought or person, or on an external object, really obsessively focus, the mind can effectively counteract the effects of the interrogation drugs that coincidentally quickly spike in effectiveness, then dissipate dramatically. Coming out of it feels like rising to the surface after a deep dive. The euphoria at that stage, the rush back to the light, is the danger period where the ebullient subject is most likely to be susceptible to elicitation.” He looked at the trainees who were dreaming of future glories in the field, or thinking about lunch. “Unless they want to turn you into a gibbon monkey—though I suspect some of you in this class are already halfway there—they cannot top you off with more drugs for another twelve hours, without risking harm.”

None of the students ever dreamed they would in the course of their careers have to recall Ramón’s words.

When SUSAN sent the encrypted flash message detailing MAGNIT’s verbal report about a CIA case officer infiltrating the compound to contact an American-handled mole, code-named CHALICE—a mole who somehow knew the closely held identity of Admiral Audrey Rowland—Gorelikov was amazed. The tenacity of the Americans to recruit sources deep inside the corridors of the Federation never seemed to abate. Unmasking this CHALICE was not going to be easy. As much as Gorelikov had run MAGNIT meticulously as his own asset recently, there were an infinite number of potential leaks and points of entry into the case: a dozen GRU handlers from the early years, twice as many supervisors, records clerks, the Security Council staff, and technical experts evaluating MAGNIT’s voluminous reporting. But none of these people was on the VIP guest list for the Cape Idokopas weekend gala. The two hundred guests were service chiefs, ministers, and the slobbering siloviki around the president. But who knew about MAGNIT? Bortnikov of FSB, that idiot from the GRU, the president. But that is not how secrets are lost: mistresses hear things, people get drunk and brag at a party, the president himself might comment on MAGNIT to an old friend from the Petersburg years, and the bird is out of the cage, impossible to trace back to the source.

There was one thing: Egorova did not know MAGNIT’s name, which provisionally exonerated her and meant that Gorelikov could depend on her to assist in the counterintelligence investigation, but there was no time to fiddle with suspects and interviews. CHALICE had to be identified and wrapped up within the next five days. Word from the Washington rezidentura was that the derogatory stories had been loudly trumpeted by a US press corps with a taste for political calamity: Senator Feigenbaum and Ambassador Vano were out of the running for DCIA, and VADM Rowland would begin congressional confirmation hearings immediately.

Gorelikov contemplated the audacity of the Americans to send an operations officer into Russia, to the president’s compound, to brazenly meet an agent to scoop up MAGNIT’s true name. The bastard case officer being held in the Gorki cottage in the woods was the key: the identity of CHALICE had to be ripped from his throat. Gorelikov had quickly assembled three experts in interrogation methods: a doctor from Moscow State University who specialized in psychotropic drugs; a psychologist from the Serbsky State Scientific Center for Social and Forensic Psychiatry; and a behavioral scientist from Section 12 of Line S in SVR, the illegals directorate. Meanwhile, the honored party guests were arriving by limousine, shuttle bus, or personal helicopter, each according to their place on the food chain. And one of them was CHALICE. Gorelikov frantically summoned Egorova, and briefed her on the situation, and together they hurried through the woods to the cottage. Egorova was smart and capable. Gorelikov saw the color drain from her face as she instantly realized the imminent danger to MAGNIT.

Dominika’s heart was pounding in her chest as she walked down the path to the cottage with Gorelikov. She knew the American who had been captured had to be Nate. Just had to be. You pushed the exfil signal to get a reaction, and you got one, she thought. But trying to break into the compound? She knew Nate was brash, but what was Benford thinking? Now she had to supervise the interrogations, her own exposure and ruin one croaking confession away. Anton was frantic to protect MAGNIT, who Dominika was now 100 percent certain was Admiral Rowland. No more hunches. Dominika had read the daily summaries circulated from the Americas Department: Rowland was being confirmed this week as next Director of CIA and would surely read Dominika’s name as a CIA asset the week after. With Nate in custody, Dominika had one option left: she’d have to send Rowland’s name back to Benford in that crazy drone speedboat—if they’d send it—that would be on the beach tomorrow night. She had no idea if the information would get to Langley in time.

Her heart fell when she saw him, but if he noticed her in the now-crowded, overheated cottage, he gave no indication. Three experts, five guards (three militiamen and two SBP), Dominika, Gorelikov, and a stenographer were all squeezed into the room. Bortnikov was expected momentarily; this technically was an internal security matter that belonged to FSB.

Nate was in an armchair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a ridiculous T-shirt, being talked to by one of the pros from Moscow. The doctor from the Serbsky Institute—his yellow halo hinted at duplicity—was leaning close, a paternal hand on Nate’s knee, talking to him in English in a soft voice, which Dominika could barely hear. She made out phrases “futile effort,” “early release,” and “return home.” Dominika sat in a straight-backed chair slightly behind the armchair, out of Nate’s line of sight. Anton paced the length of the little living room, looking impatiently at Nate and the doctor, until Dominika grabbed him softly by the arm and made him sit down. The elegant and phlegmatic Gorelikov was a nervous wreck. Hearing Nate’s voice for the first time was a knife blade in Dominika’s heart.

“Doc, you’re either going to have to give me a happy ending, or take your hand off my knee.” The doctor sat back and smiled. He was the chief psychologist from the Serbsky Institute, the clinic where dissidents are evaluated and remanded to psychiatric wards instead of Siberian gulags.

“I appreciate your sense of humor,” said the doctor, who had snow-white hair and one eye higher in its socket than the other, which made him look like a Dover sole. “But you’re in serious trouble, Mister . . . ; forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

Nate smiled. “I didn’t offer it,” he said, holding out his hand. “Nathan. Nathan Hale.” The stenographer scribbled furiously, but none of the Russians knew who that was. After traces were run, they’d all get a lesson in the American Revolution. Gorelikov stood up and signaled his impatience. The fish-eyed doctor leaned forward again.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hale,” he said. “But I must now ask you to answer my questions. Your plan has been foiled. Absolutely nothing can come of it. Your cooperation will be viewed favorably by the relevant authorities, including at the highest levels. We can avoid any unpleasantness, and you will be returned home without delay.”

“What highest levels?” said Nate. “And what sort of unpleasantness? Just so I can inform my own authorities, at the highest levels, of course.” Dominika closed her eyes. Nate’s smart mouth would be his undoing—and hers.

“Whom were you sent here to meet?” said the doctor brusquely. “We know a great deal. In a matter of hours we will know your true name and a summary of your career. I sincerely hope it was more illustrious than this debacle.” Dominika knew the technique: belittle the subject, impress him with Russian omniscience, take away hope, and then give a little back. Hard-soft, push-pull.

“If you know so much,” said Nate, “then you know I’m here to work on the art-restoration project and take a look at the compound.”

“What did you expect to do on the compound?” asked the doctor.

Nate shrugged. “The usual. Take latitude, longitude, GPS coordinates. So we can bomb it later.”

The doctor slapped Nate’s face, losing his cool. “Who is CHALICE?” he yelled. “We know all about your ill-fated plan.”

“I never heard the crypt CHALICE in my life,” said Nate, his cheek red. He knew instantly that he was at the end of a barium enema concocted by Benford and that the answer was already here: CHALICE. But now it had to get back to Langley. Maybe he could break out of his room at night and make it to the beach. The doctor nodded to one of the guards, who backhanded Nate on the side of the face. Dominika was about to get out of her chair when the doctor from Moscow State University interceded. His halo was blue. Dangerous.

“It would be counterproductive to strike the subject if I am to use certain compounds. As I’m sure my esteemed colleague knows, punches and slaps will raise his levels of adrenaline and endorphins,” he said softly, as if he were berating his counterpart from the insane asylum, who knew only about restraints and shock therapy.

“We’re wasting time,” Anton said. “What are your compounds? Do they work?”

“Let’s see, shall we?” the doctor said to Nate. Dominika held her breath.

The doctor took out three separate syringes, and laid them on the side table. Presumably each syringe contained a different chemical cocktail.

“Just so you don’t have Polonium-210 in that little black bag of yours,” said Nate. A guard clamped his hands on Nate’s right arm, but he shook it off, grabbed the guard’s lapel, twisted it, and pulled him forward to sprawl on the floor with a clatter. Two more guards clamped down on Nate’s wrist. The doctor lanced one of the needles into the vein on Nate’s arm, then stepped back to look at his face. He lifted one of Nate’s eyelids and looked at his pupils.

“Now I want you to relax,” said the doctor. “The experience will be quite pleasant.” Nate felt a hot rush travel up his arm, up his cheeks, then up the back of his skull. He experienced an intense wave of vertigo. The walls of the cottage spun in front of his eyes, and he had a sensation of falling a great distance out of the sky. He held on to the arms of the chair and rode the sensation, while quietly taking deep breaths to oxygenate his lungs. The doctor’s voice came to him from a great distance away, as if he were talking through a speaking trumpet.

“Psychotropic drugs are chemical substances that change brain function, and result in alterations in perception, mood, or consciousness,” said the doctor. “There is a wide range of compounds; the effectiveness of each depends on the personality of the subject. A period of testing is required to determine which specific drug will be most effective on an individual subject. I have chosen one that normally is quite effective.” Anton looked as though he was ready to plunge the needle into the doctor’s own neck.

“Perhaps you have not observed that this interrogation must be conducted with extreme urgency,” said Gorelikov. “We don’t have time for your damn chemical analyses, and we don’t have time for this other idiot’s moronic attempts to establish the subject’s trust, and we don’t have time for the luxury of Line S’s leisurely records searches. I need a name, the name of one of the two hundred guests now arriving for the president’s reception. One name. I need it before the sun goes down tonight. Can any of you duraki, mutton heads, accomplish that?” The doctor who had injected Nate stood stiffly with nervous indignation.

“I appreciate the urgency of the situation, you can be sure, comrade. I, therefore, have selected a robust compound of 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate and amobarbital mixed with a stabilizing derivative of Valium. You will observe the effect on the subject quite soon.”

He pulled up a chair, and sat close to Nate, whose head was now lolling, his chin on his chest. The doctor looked nervously at a fuming Gorelikov, leaned close, and started speaking softly.

“Now Mr. Hale, we are going on a pleasant trip, you and me. It will be quite enjoyable. Are you ready? By the way, who is CHALICE?”

Nate’s furtive deep breathing was just keeping the effects of the drugs from totally swallowing up his head, WHO IS CHALICE? and the room was still spinning but his grip on the armchair helped, as did digging his fingernails into his palm so he could concentrate on the pain, which became his tenuous hold on to the lip of the cliff, to the real world, keep breathing, he was on the edge of the abyss, WHAT IS CHALICE’S NAME? between consciousness and the dreamy state where he might start talking a blue streak, keep breathing dammit, think about Benford, keep your wits about you, Nash, and he thought about Forsyth, you’re stronger than they are, and he thought about Gable, rookie, don’t give those fuckers one thing, I’m proud of you, and he thought about them all, Korchnoi, and Hannah, and Udranka, and Ioana, everybody but Dominika, she doesn’t exist, WHO IS CHALICE? and he thought about Agnes two days ago in the hotel room in Warsaw, keep breathing, how her hands felt on his cheeks, feel the sensation, remember the sensation, don’t let go, and the room spinning and the doctor’s voice intruded into his thoughts, friendly, soothing, insistent, WHO IS CHALICE? don’t let go, stay in this room, his face was hot, and he could feel the sweat running down his cheeks. He looked up, the spinning got worse with his eyes open, but there was the photograph of Lenin looking down at him with those doll black eyes and the goatee unevenly trimmed, and the tight-lipped mouth waiting for Nate to start talking, but I won’t talk unless you do, you bastard, and Nate concentrated on those eyes, he locked on them, nothing else, nothing else, and waited for them to blink or move and the more he stared at Lenin’s face the stronger he became and he kept staring at the bridge of Lenin’s nose, taking in the whole photo, come down off that wall you bastard, come down and take over the interrogation, because the drugs weren’t going to work, Nate knew that now his head was clearer, and he kept breathing and the room slowed, and he kept looking at the photograph, and Lenin’s eyes blazed with hatred, and Gable’s voice told Lenin, you can go ahead and blink first, you goat fucker, because you’re not getting shit from us, and shove your proletarian revolution up your ass, and Nate kept staring at Lenin’s face, expecting the photograph to combust into the fire of Hades and to hear the roar of rage as his will was denied, and suddenly Nate was through the tunnel and his head cleared with an enormous rush, his eyesight crystal clear, noticing the grain of the logs on the wall, a fly on a windowpane, the frayed collar of the doctor, everything was humming and then Gable’s words came to him. “Listen up, rookie, just when things look darkest, they go black.” And Nate took a deep breath, and looked at the doctor. It had been twenty minutes, or three hours, Nate had no clue.

The doctor looked at Nate and knew he had lost him, the drugs were already dissipating in his system—they typically spiked in the first half hour, then faded quickly. The doctor followed Nate’s gaze and saw the picture of Lenin and instantly understood that Nate had used the photograph to focus his attention and resist the soporific effects of the drugs. Smart young man, obviously trained. He would have to wait at least twelve hours before another injection might be effective, otherwise an overload of drugs might put the subject too deep and unable to respond from that desired state of drifty half awareness. This American seemed less susceptible; perhaps it was his apparent lack of fear. The doctor looked at Gorelikov and shook his head, as he nervously started packing up his little black bag. Anton turned away in disgust, and Dominika let out a long silent breath.

Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB came through the door to the cottage and looked around. Gorelikov gave him a shrug of impotent rage. Bortnikov walked in front of Nate’s chair and stood looking down at him silently. “So nothing seems to have made an impression on our young American friend, eh? You can go,” he said, indicating the doctors. “One guard only. If the American moves, damage him considerably.” He pointed at the stenographer. “You. Out.” He picked up the receiver of the gray telephone on a side table. “Serzhánt Riazanov to the Gorki cottage, instantly,” said Bortnikov, hanging up. “We will see if we can keep your attention a little more closely,” said Bortnikov, his blue halo pulsing.

They waited for thirty minutes. Dominika stayed seated behind Nate so their eyes wouldn’t meet. Sergeant Riazanov had to dip his head when coming through the door. He must have been over two meters tall, a giant. The first thing Dominika noticed were his hands, which were huge, with bony knuckles and long fat fingers. He had the face of an ogre—acromegaly was the medical name of the affliction commonly known as gigantism—with a protruding forehead, jutting lower jaw, pronounced cheekbones, widely spaced camel’s teeth, and a massive fleshy nose. Dominika had no doubt that the skulls of Sergeant Riazanov’s early relatives had been found in Pleistocene caves in Spain and France. He wore no uniform, but was in mechanic’s overalls, zippered in front, short in the sleeves and cuffs, and a pair of enormous combat boots. No insignia, no mark of rank. That he had been summoned by Bortnikov suggested to Dominika that Riazanov was a member of some FSB unit kept in reserve for extraordinary duties, like right now, in this little quaint cottage.

General Bortnikov pointed at Nate with his chin and the ogre stepped up to the armchair, lifted Nate by the armpits, shook him like a rag doll, and threw him back into the armchair. Nate looked up at him in amazement.

“You must’ve been the tallest kid in your class,” said Nate. “You ever get checked for a tumor on your pituitary gland?” Bortnikov, unimpressed, nodded again at Sergeant Riazanov. The sergeant took Nate’s left hand in one of his grizzly-bear paws and started bending Nate’s little finger back toward his wrist. Nate thrashed wildly, but could not escape the vise grip of the sergeant as the little finger kept bending back, and back, until there was an audible snap and Nate groaned and fell into the armchair holding his broken finger. As the sergeant towered over the doubled-over figure of Nate, General Bortnikov moved slightly closer. Dominika felt faint sitting there. Those sweet hands, she thought.

“Do you recall the name of CHALICE now?” he said. “We would like to know his identity rather quickly.” Nate held his wounded hand, his little finger dark blue. From behind, Dominika saw Nate’s crimson halo steady and bright, fueled by courage and, she knew, his love for her. But how long could he last?

“I’m telling you assholes, I don’t know anyone named CHALICE,” said Nate. Bortnikov’s face flushed with anger.

“Break his left arm,” he said to Riazanov. The giant grabbed Nate’s left arm, twisted the wrist, held it out away from Nate’s body, and swung a massive fist down against Nate’s forearm with more force than an iron pipe. The snap of Nate’s ulna made Dominika jump. Nate screamed and held his shattered arm while bent double in the chair.

“Now, the name of CHALICE,” said Bortnikov. “Let’s be reasonable. All we require is a name. Sometimes it is easier to write it rather than to actually say it out loud.” He took out a pen and a notebook and put them on the arm of Nate’s chair with an encouraging smile.” You see we’ve left your right arm and hand alone for the time being so you can write the name,” said Bortnikov.

“The hospitality and honor for which Russia is widely known,” said Nate, gasping and still bent over. He didn’t reach for the pen.

“Let the sergeant help you,” said Bortnikov. The giant took the pen and placed it between Nate’s index and ring fingers and squeezed, lighting up the ulnar nerve in the hand as the pen ground against the bones. Nate’s head went back in agony.

“CHALICE?” said Bortnikov. Suddenly Dominika knew she had to do something, anything. She was the Director of SVR. She got up from her chair, put a reassuring hand on Gorelikov’s shoulder, and strode forward.

“Let’s stop this display,” said Dominika, with vehemence. “I wonder if the three of us could talk outside for a second,” she said, indicating Bortnikov and Gorelikov. The senior officers were taken aback, especially at the tone of her voice, and they filed outside onto the little decorative porch of the cottage, leaving Nate with Sergeant Neanderthal. She followed her colleagues out, slammed the front door behind her, and stared at the two startled men.

“What the fuck are we doing?” hissed Dominika. She amped up her indignation. “This is not 1937 with Stalin running amok.” She paced up and down the little porch while Gorelikov and Bortnikov followed her with their eyes. Dominika knew both of them were capable of pulling rank on her, and probably would, but she had to get them to stop breaking things on Nate.

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” said Gorelikov. “If this CHALICE reports the name of MAGNIT, we lose the best asset in the history of Russian espionage.” And probably both your heads, Dominika thought.

“I know that, Anton,” said Dominika. “But what do you intend to do with this American? Break every bone in his body? No SVR officer would be safe in the United States or abroad thereafter. And which one of you would care to explain to the president that an American intelligence officer was willfully killed during interrogation?”

“What would you propose we do about discovering the identity of CHALICE?” said Bortnikov.

“Think about it, gentlemen.” Dominika laughed. “We have found moles before. The guest list is manageable. Two hundred suspects is nothing,” she said, mock hearty and confident. “We’ll be able to cross off a hundred fifty names right away, you both know it, and I know it. The morons who run the Joint-Stock Companies, Russian Railways, or RUSAL state aluminum could never know such secrets. The remaining fifty can be interviewed, or put under surveillance, or electronically monitored. The FSB can handle that easily. Better yet, we can order all the prime suspects to attend a weeklong closed conference—something political like Governance in Novorossiya—in Nizhny Novgorod, so there will be no possibility of CHALICE communicating with anyone. By then it will be too late and MAGNIT himself will be able to tell us CHALICE’s identity. The mole is removed, MAGNIT is in place, and we initiate the systematic destabilization of CIA and the US government.” Dominika made a conscious effort to use the masculine pronoun when referring to MAGNIT.

“And the American?” asked Gorelikov.

Dominika shrugged. “He’s a discarded chess piece. For the time being, send him to Moscow and hold him incognito. Not in a prison, but in a remote district—or even a provisional capital, under supervision, house arrest. We keep him for future use: a show trial if we need it; a diplomatic concession; a spy swap. He’s not going to get near CHALICE, and the problem will be solved in a week’s time.” Bortnikov looked at Dominika from under bushy eyebrows.

“General, what you say makes sense. Your facility with operations is apparent. But there is still a risk that we do not find the mole in time. Are you willing to accept responsibility if we lose MAGNIT?”

“I do not even know MAGNIT’s true name,” said Dominika. “This will work and we will succeed without covering the walls of this ghastly little cottage with blood. Sergeant Riazanov will have to kill and eat a bear tonight instead.”

Gorelikov was impressed with his protégé. What she said was astute; it was a clever solution, specifically since he secretly had not approved of the physical aspects of the interrogation. He thought them barbaric. He looked over at Dominika.

“You’re sure it’s not that you’re taken with the handsome American?” said Gorelikov. Joke or hint? Anton had always circled around Dominika’s loyalty, poking and prodding. It was creepy and ominous, the mentor always testing the protégé.

“You have a point, Anton. Not counting Sergeant Riazanov, he’s the handsomest man in that room,” said Dominika. Both men laughed, their blue haloes positively shimmering.