The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (23)

Elephantine Failure

They didn’t even let her get through Customs at Sheremetyevo Airport. A small man in a suit that didn’t button straight stepped up to her in the arrivals line. A uniformed police officer stood behind him, heels together, watching Dominika’s face. A nanosecond of icy dread, then normalcy. The little man bowed and said he was from Protocol, and that a car was outside, code for “come at once to the Kremlin, the president is waiting.” On another day, the reception could easily be as cordial, until she was escorted into a reception room where young blond men—a dozen Valeriy Shlykovs—would push her down onto a straight-backed chair, an arm around her neck, and undress her while holding her arms and legs so she couldn’t swallow anything. And then take her to Butyrka Prison. Another day.

The familiar drumming of the Kremlin cobblestones filled the cloying rosewater-scented Mercedes as it sped through the crenelated tower of the Borovitskaya Gate. How many times would she hear the tires moan over these stones, the harmonic preparation before Putin’s next symphony? The car careered around the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, and past the Tsarsky Kolokol, the two-hundred-ton cracked Tsar’s Bell, never rung, never pealed, a metaphor for Putin’s regime. They traversed Ivanovskaya Square, the paved maidan guarded by the Tsarsky Pushka, the Tsar’s Imperial Cannon, an immense cast-bronze bombard never fired in war, and through the narrow Senate building gate. In the circular courtyard, dark-suited attendants waited on the front steps. In another age, they would have been dressed in strawberry pink imperial livery with pinchbeck buttons and powdered wigs.

Bathed in the pale yellow of sycophancy, the three aides—this many factotums was a notable indication of her status—led Dominika through the circular domed Catherine Hall, its colonnade rich with gilt Corinthian capitals, along endless corridors with the reflected light of a hundred crystal chandeliers, and down a final hallway with a frescoed vaulted ceiling alive with angels, cherubs, and seraphs. (What must they have seen and heard since 1917? The private apartments of both Lenin and Stalin were on this third floor.) They stopped at an inconspicuous and unadorned wooden alcove. An aide knocked softly once, opened the door, and minutely inclined his head toward Dominika. Putin’s office was wood paneled and narrow, an unprepossessing desk against the far wall. The president was standing behind the desk turning the pages of a file. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and red necktie. He looked up when Dominika came into the room, and wordlessly gestured that she should sit at the small table in front of the desk. She sat with her hands in her lap. The simple travel dress she had worn on the plane was barely appropriate for the Kremlin, but Dominika resolved not to care. Gorelikov was not present—that was strange—and her spine tingled. Without speaking, he sat opposite her and rested his hands on the table. His blue aura—intelligence, guile, calculation—was strong and bright.

Did he expect her to speak first? Did her performance as CI sleuth in Istanbul somehow raise suspicions? This is what Stalin used to do: summon terrified subordinates and stare at them. At least it wasn’t three a.m. in a superheated dacha.

“What happened in Istanbul?” Putin said, without preamble. I met with my CIA handler and besides dictating fourteen intelligence reports on current compartmented SVR operations, alerted Langley to the Turkish active-measures initiative designed to neuter a Western ally and abet your unholy regime. My CIA handler and I also made love after I danced naked for him in the grand salon of a Bosphorus mansion.

“Major Shlykov is a galloping egotist, whom the Americans suborned with emoluments that have yet to be determined,” said Dominika without inflection. “Line KR investigators will extract the truth soon.” She held Putin’s gaze.

“Leave it,” said Putin, waving a hand in the air. “Shlykov committed suicide in his cell last night.” Suicide? Not likely; he loved himself too much, thought Dominika. Sleep tight you bastard, you were going to blow up children in Istanbul.

She kept her face impassive, but felt the refrigerator chill of the president’s eyes. “Unfortunate,” said Dominika. “There never was any doubt of his guilt.” There was no way Putin would advertise a covert-action failure with a noisy public trial, she thought. Shlykov was doomed from the start. Dying secretly and unmourned in prison was a common fate of miscreants since the days of the Bolsheviks.

“I congratulate you again, Colonel; your diligence and energy are exemplary,” said Putin. “You’re becoming quite the mole catcher.”

Dominika willed herself to be still. “Spasibo, Mr. President,” thank you, said Dominika, and kept quiet after that. She read this man closely, watched his colored aura. He did not value fawning, talkative sycophants—he looked for efficiency, discretion, and loyalty.

“Once again, the Americans intrude,” said Putin. “Istanbul was a debacle.” Dominika again suppressed laughter. You have no idea zolotse, nugget, thought DIVA.

“They wish to isolate Russia in the mirovaya zakulisa, the world backstage,” he said. There it was, Putin’s favorite domestic trope—the conspiracy of Western leaders against Russia—to stoke nationalism and distract attention from food shortages in the cities. Never mind that Putin’s terror plot was defeated. Never mind that her dear president’s estimated personal net worth from plundered national coffers was $100 billion.

“A momentous opportunity exists to unseat America,” said Putin. “I wish you to become involved in our plans.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika. Is he going to mention MAGNIT?

“I want you to work with Gorelikov on the case.”

“This case is the one managed by Shlykov and the GRU?” asked Dominika.

The president gave her a vinegar smile, and shook his head. “The case, it belongs to me,” Putin said. His cerulean halo pulsed with the unspoken ancillary thought that Dominika could read plain as day: And so do you.

Gorelikov was eating lunch, waiting for her in his office, visibly apprehensive at not being invited to the private meeting between the president and Dominika. A lunch cart was beside his desk. His simmering blue halo suggested he was nervous lest Putin think he and Egorova colluded to undermine Shlykov and his operation.

Mindful of the Kremlin chandeliers that hear every conversation, Dominika reassured him discreetly. “The president complimented me on a counterintelligence coup,” she said knowingly. Gorelikov’s face relaxed. He pushed a plate of golden Crimean carrot fritters toward her, slathering one with yogurt sauce for her.

“You heard about Major Shlykov?” he asked.

“Suicide in his cell?” said Dominika.

Gorelikov leaned toward her, whispering. “His loyal aide Blokhin was given the opportunity to atone for being detained by the Turks and pitched by the Americans. Apparently quite a disgrace among the Spetsnaz groups.”

“Blokhin killed him?” Nate had told her about pitching Blokhin in a Turkish police station. The brute must have been humiliated.

“The traditional bullet behind the ear,” whispered Gorelikov. “We find it useful to retain some of the old traditions. Shlykov’s nerves deserted him at the last minute. They stuffed a rag in his mouth to stop his screams—like Yehzov in 1940 and Beria in ’53—nothing’s really changed from the charming early days of the Revolution.”

“Loyalty for superiors runs deep in GRU, obviously,” said Dominika.

“Blokhin is a maniac. But with Shlykov’s demise I believe the Istanbul covert action will be forgotten. FSB Chief Bortnikov likewise is pleased. He told the president he admired the way you wrapped up the matter.” Don’t thank me, thank the Americans, she thought. “Another carrot fritter?” said Gorelikov, holding it out to her, like feeding time at the petting zoo. Executions in basements and yogurt-smothered carrot fritters. Today’s Russia.

Gorelikov picked up a file folder. “We have spoken about this before, but I would like you to set aside a few hours to meet the new MSS representative to Moscow, three-star General Sun Jianguo, of Chinese State Security,” Gorelikov said. “Reports directly to the Minister of State Security in the State Council in Beijing. He speaks excellent English, from a previous posting to London. Beijing recently initiated contact, discreetly, claiming they want to improve and expand cooperation with Moscow, and the relationship between security services is a place to start. General Sun arrived last week to assume his duties.”

“After the glavnyy protvnik, the Main Enemy, these Chinese termity, these termites, are the biggest threat to the Rodina in the future,” continued Gorelikov, looking sideways at Dominika. “You know counterintelligence, you have winning ways, so see what this rice-eater has to say, what he has under his tongue. The president wants to know how we can benefit.” Winning ways, thought Dominika. I’m sure you’re referring to my ops skills.

“Do you think he is susceptible?” asked Dominika.

“If he has predilections, they will become apparent in time,” said Gorelikov, casually. “Men, women, children. Spirits, drugs, gambling. Tasting pain, or inflicting it, we’ll know soon enough.” Dominika smiled knowingly, hiding her contempt. My Rodina, land of black earth and fragrant pines, my country, transformed by you heroes into a back-alley clearing house of vice.

“Even as we watch the dragon carefully,” said Gorelikov, “China may be useful in depleting US influence on a second front.” He bent to prepare another fritter for Dominika, but she held up a polite hand in refusal.

“China could be very useful,” said Gorelikov, counting on his fingers. “Alternate petroleum markets, military-equipment sales, cyber operations against American infrastructure, a tangible challenge to US naval hegemony in the Pacific. A cooperative allegiance with Beijing could potentially be of great benefit. Naturally you will assess the feasibility of intelligence operations against these Maoists here, in Beijing, and in Hong Kong.”

“I will run traces on General Sun. Perhaps something useful will appear.”

Gorelikov shook his head. “We’re doing this on our own, you and I; let’s see where this takes us.” Dominika realized that she was becoming Putin’s personal operational fixer. Another success—with Chinese liaison for instance—would almost certainly win her the Directorship of SVR.

She took another swing at MAGNIT. “The president mentioned Shlykov’s sensitive case. What is the status of that?”

Gorelikov smiled. “All in good time,” he said. There may not be time to wait before your damned mole reads my name, Dominika thought.

Dominika met the MSS general for lunch at the White Rabbit, the internationally acclaimed restaurant on the rooftop sixteenth floor of the Smolensk Passage Building in the Arbat, on Smolenskaya Square, the long dining room completely under a curved glass roof with breathtaking views of the Moskva River and Stalin’s looming Gothic Ministry of Foreign Affairs skyscraper. The restaurant interior was a dreamland of extravagant artwork hung every which way, brightly colored couches, and a neon-lit bar, all under the scudding afternoon clouds of early summer. Dominika chose a dark chalk-stripe suit, with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, dark stockings, and black flats. No cleavage or come-fuck-me heels today.

She was already seated at a choice corner table for five at the end of the room, against the downward sweep of the clear canopy, when General Sun appeared by the maître d’ station. He was accompanied by a tall young man who scanned the room, leaned to whisper in the general’s ear, and pointed at Dominika. Bodyguard. Sun came down the two steps and made his way alone across the dining room between the tables. The young man remained at the entrance, never taking his eyes off the general.

General Sun was short and stout, in his sixties, with a smooth flat face and jet-black hair, no doubt dyed. Rheumy black eyes under upward-arching eyebrows gave him a perpetual quizzical look, as if he were struggling to understand what was being said to him. There was a canary-yellow halo around his head, signaling deceit, calculation, disingenuousness.

He stood at the table and bowed slightly, then offered his hand in a mild fleeting handshake. He was dressed in a pearl-gray suit with a starched white shirt and a muted striped tie. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” said Sun, in heavily accented English. He sat across the table from her, unrolled his spotless linen napkin, and put it on his lap. At the academy they would have recommended he take the seat next to her, to establish a connection, to position himself inside her space, but that’s what aggressive SVR Russians would do. Cautious and introverted Chinese officials, in full defensive mode in the Russian capital, would be different. In contrast, Dominika knew Nate would scoot his chair close so their knees were touching, and drape his arm across the back of her chair. But what else could you expect from nekulturny Americans? Nate intruding into her thoughts again.

“Are you enjoying Moscow, General?” said Dominika. “Are you in your apartment?” She knew all Chinese Embassy diplomats had strict rules and were forced to live kak seledka v bochke, packed like herrings in the barrel, in prefab high-rises on the embassy’s five-acre walled compound on Druzhby Street, near Moscow State University.

“I am fortunate to have been assigned a comfortable flat in a large building on Minskaya Ulitsa, in the diplomatic quarter, not far from the embassy. I can walk when the weather permits,” said General Sun. “My assistant and a housekeeper live with me.” Interesting. He’s allowed to live off compound, very unusual. Staying loose to be able to operate in Moscow? Living apart also means we can get to him, if we eventually see an opening. Welcome to Moscow! Your comely neighbor lady might need to borrow a cup of Sparrow sugar some evening.

“I trust that soon we can host you at Headquarters in Yasenevo,” said Dominika.

“Delighted,” said General Sun, reserved.

“I understand your service is interested in expanding cooperation,” said Dominika.

“Most assuredly,” said Sun. “My organization—I apologize for the long title—the Zhonghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guójia Anquánbù, the Ministry of State Security, is especially interested in your service’s recognized expertise in counterintelligence. As you are chief of that department, we wish to learn from you.” He bowed from his seat. Was the MSS worried about a specific CI problem? She knew SVR officers in the Beijing rezidentura were trolling for elusive Chinese contacts, but Dominika was not aware of any major SVR operations currently running against China. Maybe her CIA colleagues were causing trouble.

This is good, really good, she thought. Dominika could exploit this liaison relationship on three levels: she would elicit MSS counterintelligence philosophy and techniques; she could pass dezinformatsiya, disinformation, to Beijing about Russian intentions toward China (Gorelikov would like that); and she would report it all to Benford and Nate. General Sun seemed mild and polite, but her instincts told her—like with Gorelikov—not to underestimate him.

Benford sat at a conference table in Headquarters with Tom Forsyth, Nate Nash, and Lucius Westfall. Coffee cups, files, folders, and pads of paper literally covered the table. The empty chair at the end of the small table reminded them of Gable, and they felt his presence in the room. They wished he were with them, for this was a desperate gathering. A mole hunt. At Benford’s behest, Westfall and Nash had cautiously researched the backgrounds, without approvals from the office of the Acting Director, of the three candidates for the new Director, a violation of at least a dozen Agency regulations, if not a handful of federal ones. They were all complicit by their presence in this room.

“We screened for three criteria,” said Westfall. “Substantive access to the US Navy railgun program; continuing access of interest to the Russians for approximately the last five years; and the last category, which is subjective, vulnerability, motivation, inclination—you’ll have to decide yourselves.”

“Why five years?” said Benford. “DIVA reported that MAGNIT’s been in harness for at least twelve years.”

Westfall swallowed. “We figured if we identify five years of access, we get an indication. Besides, MAGNIT may have been dormant or on ice for a couple of years.”

Benford nodded. “As you report on your findings, and if it does not tax your millennial intellects, remember we are looking as hard for reasons to exclude any one of the three as a suspect, as we are for incriminating evidence. The Russians cannot be running all three of them. And we don’t have much time.”

“Okay, Senator Feigenbaum’s been on the intelligence and armed services committees for twenty years,” said Westfall. “She voted to fund the railgun through the development process and can request any information from the navy anytime she wants.”

“Motivation?” said Forsyth. “She’s a US senator for Christ sakes.”

“Debatable,” said Nate. “She’s traveled a lot overseas all her career, including lots of contacts with the Soviets. Maybe she’s retiring soon, wants a cabinet job. We thought maybe she’s building a nest egg.”

“But we found out she doesn’t need a nest egg,” said Westfall. “We did a full financial dive on all the candidates. The senator has thirty million dollars in the bank and in real estate.”

“Don’t discount the amassing of title and power,” said Benford. “It’s what makes the whole Congress tick. The ultimate aphrodisiac among a large herd of narcissists.”

“We know the senator hates CIA’s guts,” said Westfall.

“Maybe the Kremlin is paying her to bring down the Agency,” said Benford. “She’d like to do that, her and her butt boy Farbissen.” Forsyth didn’t buy it, but motioned Westfall to continue.

“Next we have Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland. She’s actually been running the railgun project since it started. Now she’s running all the navy labs with science and weapons and stealth stuff the Russians would love to steal.”

“Motivation?” asked Nate.

“She’s the cleanest of the bunch,” said Westfall. “Third star, medals, physics brain, poster girl for the navy. She stays at home too. No time at all with the fleet at sea. Military pension when she retires.”

“Hobbies? Vices? Habits? Addictions? Vulnerabilities?” asked Forsyth, the case officer, looking for a handle.

Westfall shook his head. “Nothing except the china doll heads,” he said.

“What in God’s name is that?” said Forsyth.

“The admiral is a major collector. She’s even mentioned on some websites.”

“Marvelous,” said Benford, “but what are they? Tell me they’re from Russia perhaps?”

“No,” said Westfall. “You know those antique porcelain dolls from Victorian Britain or nineteenth-century Germany with those creepy stares and Cupid’s bow mouths, and rouged fever cheeks? Not the whole dolls, not the antique dresses, the admiral just collects the heads. She’s got hundreds of them, all on some shelf, staring.”

“At this point Marty Gable would make a crack about inflatable love dolls,” said Benford.

They were all quiet for a second. “Frigging dolls. Ask the shrinks what it means,” said Nate. “Maybe the admiral’s got a secret life.”

“With that hair?” said Benford. “She looks like Martha Washington.”

“That comment is mildly unpatriotic,” said Nate. Benford swiped the air as if batting gnats.

“It doesn’t matter how clean the admiral seems. Don’t underestimate military culture,” said Forsyth. “Advancement is everything, especially for women in the services. Bringing military discipline to a civilian agency might appeal to her scientific mind. For flag-rank officers, finding a job with influence after retirement is important. It could be a lot of factors.”

“I still think the admiral comes in as the cleanest of the bunch. I can’t see her meeting with the Russians and hiding blood diamonds under the floorboards.”

“What about the third guy?” snapped Benford.

“The ambassador. Sort of a lightweight, but during his four years in Embassy Rome he was reading plenty of classified cables. Now he’s on the Intelligence Working Group, which gives him moderate access the Russians would want. Lots of business travel overseas for years, including commodities deals in Belarus, so that’s a red flag. He was in Hollywood once, and likes money. He’s worth around one hundred million dollars, so maybe becoming Director is just an ego thing.”

“But no access to the railgun, right? We can cross him off,” said Forsyth. Westfall handed him a sheet of paper.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “But it happens that he worked on a five-year navy railgun contract because his precious-metals company manufactured beryllium oxide ceramic heat diffusers for the magnetic rails—they get hot with all that juice running through them, and Ambassador Tommy Vano knows railgun design intimately. He made another bundle on the contract, donated to the right campaign—he’s moderately liberal but he looks out for himself—and became an ambassador.”

“Who thinks he can run CIA. Christ. So any of the three could be MAGNIT,” said Forsyth. “The admiral is least likely, for reasons of motive and ideology, are we agreed? And there’s another briefing tomorrow. The Acting Director wants Russia cases to be briefed this time.”

“We’re not opening our restricted cases to these fuckers,” Benford said.

“Not smart, Simon,” said Forsyth. “The Director would love to take you down as he walks out the door.”

“I will not brief any of the three on DIVA. She would be dead in a week.” There was silence at the table, until Benford raised his head.

“I need to speak to Nash. May we reconvene in two hours? Thank you.”

The conference room cleared quickly. Benford stared at Nash for a full minute. “Please do not utter a word until I finish speaking.” Benford was always telling people not to speak, but the tone in his voice this time told Nash he was waltzing on the rim of the volcano. Benford handed him a cable from Moscow, a translation of a note Dominika had passed to Ricky Walters during a dangerous personal meeting. She had written that the death of Gable had affected her deeply and that she would curtail personal meetings until such time as she could be resupplied with SRAC. She would, of course, inform colleagues whenever she was in the West to arrange meetings then, but no more inside contact.

“I advised you to keep Marty’s death from her, given her attachment to him. I have consulted the Gregorian, Julian, and Coptic calendars and conclude there is not enough time before the next solstice for me to enumerate the ways you have been stupid,” said Benford, baring his teeth and wearing his Fall of Ancient Rome Face, the one the emperor used while watching Christians in the Coliseum being fed to lions. His unblinking eyes held Nate’s, something rarely seen with Benford, and it signaled real danger. “That I acquiesced in letting you develop a romantic attachment to a sensitive asset was an abrogation of my personal and professional standards and a failure on my part as an operational manager.”

This was bad. He had not only fucked up personally, but also, Nate now realized, caused Benford professional vexation. He wondered if the day would end with his being walked out of the Headquarters building, escorted by two crew cut linebackers from the Office of Security in blue blazers who would yank his ID badge off his lapel as the automatic doors slid open to welcome him to a sunny civilian world without spies, and secrets, and without Dominika.

“So now we must contemplate the scale of your fuckup,” continued Benford. “Not only have you resolutely shagged this Agency’s premier penetration of the Kremlin, with all that portends, but you could not, or would not, keep devastating news from her, with the result you now hold in your hands: a cessation of timely reporting from her while a Russian mole is possibly to be named Director of this Agency.” Nate held his breath; he didn’t dare offer an explanation.

“It is an axiom of our profession that this work is experiential; one is not born to it, one only becomes more skillful with time. In the arc of your semen-roiled career, you can boast of notable accomplishments and now, of an elephantine failure. The question I am asking myself is whether redemption is possible.

“Redemption is not automatic; a second chance is given only if merited. God knows we have suffered abject, irredeemable fellows in our service: Gondorf, Angevine, the self-congratulatory directors who only read of operations but never manage them.” Benford scowled in thought. Behind him was a photograph of a snow-blasted wall with an inverted V marked in chalk on the masonry—a Moscow signal site from the 1960s.

“Are you redeemable, Nash?” said Benford. “Or more to the point, are you worth redeeming?” Benford stared at Nate for twenty seconds, testing him, assessing his nerves. “Speak,” he said.

Okay, dickhead, the most important sentence of the rest of your life, thought Nate.

“Simon, Marty Gable once told me an officer in the Service can never achieve greatness unless he or she failed big, at least once. I’m not going to explain my mistakes to you, because you know what the situation is between me and DIVA. I’m committed to her and to this job. You know what I’ve done, and what I can still do, if you give me a chance. You asked whether I’m worth redeeming. Well, Simon, you fucking tell me. But with all respect, if you give up on me, you’re a bigger asshole than everyone thinks you are. I’m ready to go to work and do any job, so you decide. Do I stay or are you kicking me out?” Nate meant what he said, but would the ever-profane Simon swallow the insubordination? Nate thought it probably would come down to what Benford had for lunch that day. Nate waited for the hammer to drop.

Benford ran fingers through already-tousled hair. “You have balls talking to me like that. Jesus, you sound like Al Gore,” he said. “All right, now get out of here and get to work.”