The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (6)

Welcome to the Club

As Benford began his morning blaspheming about moles in Washington, there was an icy late-afternoon meeting in progress seventy-eight hundred kilometers away, around another conference table in the Kremlin. This room, right off the president’s office in the Senate building, was immaculate, carpeted in blue and paneled in rich wood. The polished walnut table had dark mahogany inlays in a star pattern—a five-pointed Soviet star—an antique kept in use for reasons of nostalgia. It was the president’s conference room after all, and he liked the discreet reminder of the past glories of the USSR.

The meeting was called and directed by the goateed Anton Gorelikov, elegant in a blue suit from Brioni, a light-blue spread-collar shirt from Turnbull & Asser, and a maroon seven-fold silk necktie from E. Marinella in Naples. His silver hair was combed straight back.

Gorelikov’s duty was to advise the president on foreign and domestic affairs, national security, and manipulating world events in favor of the Russian Federation, a modern-day Mikhail Suslov, who had been the Chief Ideologue of the Soviet Communist Party. He had graduated from the Faculty of Law at Saint Petersburg State University in 1975 with Putin, both with law degrees, and both had joined the KGB, Putin in foreign intelligence, Gorelikov in analysis. When Vladimir ascended in politics during the boozy last days of Yeltsin, he tapped his friend from law school to join his political satrapy, and thanks to Anton’s poise, acumen, and foresight—as well as a studied avoidance of all Kremlin intrigues—eventually attained chief of the Sekretariat. He had never married, was agnostic in matters of sex, trusted nobody, and was an astute and suspicious observer of human reactions. He had the president’s confidence (as far as Vladimir Putin conferred his total trust on anybody) chiefly because he never sank to sycophancy. He occasionally reminded the president that surely there were moles in the Kremlin, just as Russia ran agents in Washington.

Anton Gorelikov knew Putin’s Russia was atrophying slowly from within, buoyed only by her poorly managed natural resources and the geopolitical misadventures that kept Putin on the world stage. But like a chess master brilliantly defending a losing game until an advantage revealed itself, Gorelikov reveled in the intrigue, in the manipulation of events, and in the wielding of power. His putative allies were Bortnikov of the FSB, Patrushev of the Security Council, and, he hoped, Egorova, the rising star who had already been noticed by the Kremlin. Gorelikov was quietly maneuvering for her elevation to Director of SVR. It would be a tall order for a woman to be appointed Director of SVR, but the resourceful Gorelikov was known as a volshebnik, a conjurer, who could turn water to wine. There was no rush.

Aside from acting as Vladimir’s Machiavelli, Gorelikov was an aesthete. He collected paintings, bronzes, and antique maps, and was an immaculate clotheshorse. He appraised the incomparable beauty of SVR Colonel Dominika Egorova, who was sitting on one side of the table, a thin file folder in front of her. Her blue eyes were extraordinary, her hands in repose were serene, and that face could launch a thousand ships—if the rotting Russian Red Fleet had that many left. Gorelikov knew Egorova’s personal and service history, where she lived, how many times she had been posted or traveled abroad (quite a lot for her age and rank), and the more spectacular episodes of her career, including her service as a Sparrow. One thing he did not know was that the beautiful Colonel Egorova was assessing the cerulean halo around his head, the luminous blue halo of the sophisticated thinker.

It was time to begin. Gorelikov knew this meeting would be unpleasant; he disliked churlish behavior, which was in abundance among the oxen of Putin’s inner circle of former KGB, gangster, and police colleagues, including the men opposite Egorova at the table.

“Are we all present?” said Gorelikov, his voice smooth as a cello. “May I make introductions?”

Across from Dominika sat Major Valeriy Shlykov of the GRU, the military foreign intelligence service of the General Staff of the Russian Federation. Dressed in a tailored suit with a blue necktie, Shlykov was in his thirties, a blond, broad-faced Great Russian with lazy blue eyes and big lips. The yellow cloud that hung over him like a plague flag signaled conceit, envy, duplicity. Shlykov did not acknowledge or look at Dominika, but dismissively flipped the pages of a folder in front of him. This one is ambitious and privileged, thought Dominika. Why is he here? The summons to this meeting was vague, but she assumed it was to discuss her North Korean recruitment, Academician Ri. Why would the GRU be present to discuss an SVR case?

In Russia, competition among the services, and inside the branches of the military, and among the ministries was always feverish, and sometimes desperately ruthless. When the KGB split into the SVR and the FSB, it just meant two more muzzles drinking from the same trough. And they all disdained the krestyaniki, the peasants in the GRU.

To Shlykov’s right sat a squat, chunky man in a too-small suit with a patterned necktie knotted loosely around a drainpipe neck. He was older than Shlykov, in his late fifties, with immense, scarred hands, like a retired wrestler. His hair was gray and thinning, and his gnarly face and crooked nose were creased and weathered. His broad forehead was a shiny mass of scar tissue, as if from a terrible burn. Large brown eyes looked down unwavering at his hands. Gorelikov introduced him as Starshy praporshchik Iosip Blokhin, Master Sergeant Blokhin of Spetsgruppa “V,” or Vega group, or more commonly known as Vympel, the Spetsnaz Special Forces unit used by the GRU for assassinations and covert foreign military operations.

Gorelikov’s instincts vibrated like a tuning fork: Blokhin was a senior Spetsnaz sergeant in a cheap civilian suit, physically powerful, immensely experienced, outwardly calm and still. Impossible to control, ready to slaughter anything that moved. Blokhin said nothing, hardly moved; there was an air of controlled expectation in those downcast eyes—as if he were waiting for a bell to ring to murder everyone in the room. His burned forehead was striated where the flesh had melted and run like candle wax. With obvious irony, Gorelikov wryly explained that the sergeant had been seconded to work with the major, but to call Blokhin Shlykov’s “aide” would be like calling a chain saw a pair of pinking shears.

Gorelikov saw Blokhin raise his eyes to stare at Dominika and watched how his future protégé handled the ferine challenge. She stared unblinkingly at him, hands relaxed, then turned away dismissively to look at Gorelikov to continue. Satisfactory, thought Anton. He could not know that Dominika had seen black bat wings of elemental evil unfolded behind the ogre, and stretched wide, like a seabird dries its wings in the sun. Dominika had shuddered slightly, and Blokhin saw it. Only one other human—Zyuganov, her former psychotic supervisor—had black wings like this instead of colors. Blokhin blinked slowly at Dominika as if wondering how her liver would taste roasted on a stick over a campfire.

“Perhaps Colonel Egorova would give us a précis of her new case,” said Gorelikov. His tourmaline cabochon cuff links peeked out of his sleeves.

“Are these gentlemen cleared for the details?” she asked.

Shlykov looked up at her with a sneer. “Yes, Colonel, we’re familiar with all aspects of the case with Academician Ri, which is an infernal nuisance and must be terminated immediately.”

“Perhaps the major can explain how the GRU is familiar with an SVR case?” said Dominika. Gorelikov smiled inwardly. Egorova outranked this khvastun, this swank-pot bully, and she wasn’t going to back down.

“We are familiar with every aspect of your so-called case, because it intersects and interferes with a case of much greater importance that the GRU is running,” said Shlykov. Dominika smiled.

Gorelikov interposed, like a judge separating two attorneys. “The deconfliction of intelligence operations is always critical,” he said. “I am all eagerness to hear about your cases. Both of them.”

“Sadly, Egorova is not cleared for it,” said Shlykov.

Gorelikov raised a hand. “Now, Major,” he said. “I believe the president gave instructions that both efforts should be coordinated. Please brief Colonel Egorova.”

Shlykov heard the edge in Gorelikov’s voice and complied. “The GRU has been running a sensitive asset for nearly twelve years. The source is encrypted MAGNIT, an American source with broad access to technology and policy.” Shlykov sat with his arms across his chest.

“That is quite impressive, Major,” said Dominika. “I presume since the GRU is handling the case the asset was a volunteer?” Gorelikov again stifled a smile. Egorova was pulling Shlykov’s tail with a backhanded comment, made on purpose. Military dolts in the GRU would be incapable of recruiting such an asset from scratch. They’d stumbled on a volunteer.

“I’m not at liberty to describe the source in any more detail,” said Shlykov, red-faced.

“And I am still not clear,” said Dominika, “how my new source Academician Ri interferes with your source MAGNIT. Can you clarify that?”

“I should have thought it would be obvious, even to an SVR officer,” said Shlykov. “MAGNIT has provided a certain technology that the GRU has shared with the North Koreans to assist their nuclear weapons program.”

Dominika smiled. “So let’s summarize. MAGNIT has passed railgun technology to the GRU, which in turn has passed it to the North Korean intelligence service, the RGB, which has in turn provided the data to be used in nuclear trigger design at the Yongbyon Scientific Research Center.” Shlykov looked back at Dominika without expression.

“Why would the GRU under any circumstances wish to accelerate the development of a North Korean nuclear device?” asked Dominika. Bravo, thought Gorelikov, Egorova arrives at the correct issue in five minutes.

“That is not an intelligence matter,” snapped Shlykov. “That is a policy consideration far outside your purview.” Gorelikov from the end of the table looked at Dominika with a blank expression that meant drop it.

“And what does the SVR Director think?” said Dominika. No answer; the current SVR Director is a nonentity. “Is it the president’s edict that Academician Ri be terminated? I see no conflict between the two cases. MAGNIT is only providing the technology. Professor Ri is a penetration of the North Korean nuclear program. Cannot both cases be run concurrently and in close coordination?” Gorelikov noted how Egorova kept her temper, while Shlykov fumed.

“When an asset of immense potential value is threatened by another asset of lesser value, priorities must be set. There is no question that Egorova’s case must be terminated. The SVR must withdraw from the operational field,” said Shlykov.

“I believe we can discuss the compatibility of these cases at a later date,” said Gorelikov. “But what the major says is true. MAGNIT is of immense importance, now and in the future. But this brings us to another subject, the ultimate reason for this meeting: the secure handling of MAGNIT. The president has ordered the SVR to assist the GRU in establishing an enhanced handling protocol for this asset.” Shlykov bristled in his chair.

“The GRU is more than capable of handling its assets securely,” he snapped.

“You may wish to express your opposition to the president’s wishes in person,” said Gorelikov softly, using the time-honored Kremlin threat. Shlykov looked down at his folder, retreating, knowing the conversation was probably being recorded.

“No one has the experience and acumen that the SVR can bring to a foreign operation,” said Gorelikov, ticking points off on his fingers. “MAGNIT will be more safely handled in the United States by an illegals officer. SVR administers Line S, the illegals directorate. Colonel Egorova has handled illegals before. Besides,” he continued, as if any of it made a difference, “the president expressly wishes that Colonel Egorova be involved in the handling and communications plan for MAGNIT,” said Gorelikov.

“I did not agree to this,” said Shlykov.

“The president did not solicit your approval,” said Gorelikov, impatiently. “MAGNIT has been handled adequately for a decade, with tradecraft commensurate with the asset’s position.” Gorelikov was devilishly clever not to use the masculine or feminine pronoun. Be patient; someone will make a slip sooner or later, Dominika thought.

“But the internal handling protocol must now be strengthened,” said Gorelikov. “With the prospect of MAGNIT’s improved access, handling can no longer be left to inside GRU officers. A top illegals officer in New York City encrypted SUSAN will handle MAGNIT internally from now on, and Egorova will travel to the United States to meet her and pass dedicated communications equipment.” Well, we at least know SUSAN is a she. New York: it would be Dominika’s first trip to America.

What none of them at the table knew was that for at least ten years MAGNIT was also being met once a year outside the United States by Gorelikov himself. Gorelikov considered MAGNIT his case despite Shlykov’s pettifogging and now, as MAGNIT’s access was going to mushroom, he wanted to jettison clunky GRU handling and institute more secure handling in the United States.

“The SVR will try to usurp the case,” said Shlykov, unhappily. “The General Staff will not stand for any attempt to purloin the intelligence.”

“You mean steal your credit,” said Gorelikov dryly. “Do not worry, the case will remain with the GRU. Colonel Egorova need not even know MAGNIT’s true name when she passes the equipment to SUSAN.” Wrong answer, Anton. I need to know where our friend MAGNIT lives and breathes. There will be time.

“That’s most reassuring,” said Shlykov. “But I want Blokhin to accompany the colonel to New York to protect our operational equities.”

For a million reasons, no way, thought Dominika. I’ll be meeting Nate and Bratok in New York. “Now I’m afraid I must object,” said Dominika. “Two officers cannot make a clandestine meeting in tandem. Though I’m sure Sergeant Blokhin’s skills in the field are many, I suspect surveillance detection is not one of them.”

Blokhin’s strange bass voice surprised everyone. “I’ll show you my field skills whenever you like,” he said. His vacant look was more alarming than had he been growling. The black wings folded back on each other.

Shlykov and Blokhin pushed back from the table, gathered their folders, and left the conference room. The metronome click of their heels faded, until they turned a corner in the gorgeous hallway.

Gorelikov heaved a deep sigh. “Dealing with that presmykayushchiysya, that reptile, is always tiresome,” said Gorelikov. “His grandfather was a hero in the Great Patriotic War, until Stalin purged—shot—him in 1949. His father was an army marshal in the seventies, and young Valeriy has done well in the GRU. He is ambitious, privileged, and unethical, so watch your back with him.”

“And MAGNIT?” asked Dominika casually.

“An immensely productive case with unimaginable promise,” said Gorelikov, who was not ready to reveal the agent’s identity to Egorova on the eve of her trip to New York. “The asset has risen through the bureaucracy and is now poised on the US national policy stage. If things develop the right way, the source will be handled by the illegals officer in New York and directed from the Kremlin as a Director’s case, despite our ill-mannered Shlykov’s wishes.” Okay for now. No more questions about the mole; you’ll have the name for Benford in a month.

“And would it be overstepping my bounds to ask why in heaven we are helping the North Korean nuclear program?” said Dominika.

“Because I want to disorient the Chinese, and flatter that little dumpling in Pyongyang,” said President Vladimir Putin, entering the conference room from a side door. The usual blue suit, white shirt, aquamarine tie, and darting blue eyes complemented the well-known phlegmatic expression somewhere between a grin and a leer. Putin came around the table with his characteristic rolling sailor’s gait, which an obsequious Kremlin biographer had recently described as a KGB-taught fighter’s stride, but Dominika suspected was just a short man’s waddle. Without speaking, he sat opposite her and rested his hands on the table. His blue aura—intelligence, guile, calculation—was like a kokoshnik on his head, the traditional conical Russian headdress, half-tiara, and half-diadem.

“I would like you to meet the illegals officer in New York,” he said. Dominika had no doubt he had heard the conversation with Shlykov five minutes before.

The clairvoyant leader, the all-knowing tsar. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I trust you to take the necessary precautions.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika.

“Take Blokhin with you as support,” Putin said.

Gorelikov stirred. “Mr. President,” he said, “a Spetsnaz trooper is not exactly what the operational situation—”

“Take him along, nonetheless,” said Putin. “Keep the major happy until he begins his other project.” Gorelikov kept quiet.

“And when you return,” said Putin to Dominika, “I want to discuss new initiatives in the SVR with you. The recent favorable results of the activniye meropriyatiya, our active measures in the United States tells me we should expand our capabilities in this area.”

“I will look forward to it,” said Dominika. Putin’s face softened as his eyes settled for an instant on the tight buttons of her tailored blouse under her navy suit. I’ll kill Benford if he asks me to do what melon head is thinking right now, she thought.

Dominika was used to men staring at her figure, and reveled in staring them down. But it was different with the leers of the president. They had a history of sorts. She shuddered as she remembered Putin’s late-night visit to her room years ago during the weekend at the palace outside Saint Petersburg. He wore red silk pajamas and walked in without knocking. Sitting upright in bed in her lacy nightgown, she had held the bedclothes up under her chin to cover herself, then remembered she had to captivate the tsar and lowered the sheet. She had dared to put her hand in his lap as he ran his fingers inside the full cups of her babydoll, to demonstrate her willingness, but her practiced (Sparrow) ministrations had, to her alarm, no immediate effect on him. The president had silently departed soon after, but the encounter hung over them, a preordained coupling sometime in the future, whenever the tsar would appear to claim his prize. And she would let him. She had to.

“Schastlivogo puti,” said the president. “Bon voyage.” He got up, nodded at Gorelikov, and exited by a separate side door that was opened by one of a score of werewolf aides who were always lurking. The door clicked shut, and Gorelikov sighed. Directing Putin’s one-man Sekretariat was a trial.

“I’ve ordered a light lunch,” he said. “Will you join me?”

They walked down the corridor to a small executive dining room and sat at a table. A waiter wheeled in a cart with a platter under a silver cover. “Sel’d pod Shuboy, herring under vegetable salad,” said Gorelikov, serving Dominika a plate. “I hope you like it.”

“It’s very good,” she said, thinking that the average young Russian probably never tasted such a delicacy.

Gorelikov chewed thoughtfully. “Too much mayonnaise,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I have much to tell you.”

“I will appreciate your guidance,” said Dominika.

“First, I must mention that the president applauds your service record. He is following your career with interest.” Unfortunately with an erection, thought Dominika.

“I predict he will promote you in the next trimester. The Directorship of SVR will follow, in my view.”

Gorelikov’s blue halo held steady, suggesting that he was telling the truth. “The president also likes Major Shlykov,” said Gorelikov. “Perhaps he admires how naglyy, how brazen he is.”

“Do we terminate Academician Ri in favor of the MAGNIT case?” said Dominika.

Gorelikov shrugged. “I agree that your case has merit, an invaluable look inside the Hermit Kingdom’s nuclear program. But I predict the president will tire of pitting the North Koreans against Beijing, and withdraw his support. We can decide later.”

“I am still not clear how one case threatens the other,” said Dominika. “Both streams of intelligence will be handled in compartments.”

Gorelikov observed how much ops sense this beauty had. He toyed with the notion of briefing her on MAGNIT, but decided it was too soon. He admired how she was not shy about pressing her point, even to a superior in the rarified air of the Kremlin. He strongly suspected she would be suitable for what he had in mind. “Shlykov believes the fact that the North Koreans are receiving railgun technology incontrovertibly reveals that an American source exists. If MAGNIT continues to move up, the case will eclipse all others and must be protected.”

“Is MAGNIT that good?” said Dominika. Last question, don’t press.

“The asset has the potential to be the best source in the history of our intelligence efforts against the Main Enemy,” said Gorelikov with a chuckle, “if you’ll excuse that old Soviet phrase—the Main Enemy—which, incidentally, is enjoying a resurgence in this building. You should keep that in mind.”

“I will,” said Dominika.

“Good. Now for politics,” said Gorelikov. “Beijing is agitating the region with those damn artificial islands in the South China Sea. They’re defying Washington; they’re annoying the president. Putin wants to distract the Chinese, insert himself between the Beijing politburo and Pyongyang, and shake up the cozy relationship that’s been unchallenged since the fifties.”

“But forgive me, I can see the merit in active measures to disrupt the relationship, but at the cost of letting them have the bomb?” asked Dominika. Gorelikov laughed.

“I know, I asked the same question,” said Gorelikov.

This man is a right-thinking adviser, thought Dominika, not a lickspittle. “It just seems like quite a risk,” said Dominika. “My experience with the Iranian nuclear program taught me that research and development can stall, then accelerate unpredictably.”

Gorelikov smiled at her. “Our work is fraught with risk,” he said. “You yourself run risks every day, don’t you?”

The familiar douche of icy alarm ran up Dominika’s spine, the ageless affliction of the clandestine agent who lives with the dangling dread of discovery every waking moment. What’s that supposed to mean? An innocent comment? A coy hint that she is somehow suspected? Nate would howl in distress and demand anew that she immediately defect.

“Your experiences with the Iranians were risky, your duel with the lamented Zyuganov was risky, the spy swap in Estonia was exceptionally risky,” said Gorelikov. “No, Dominika—may I call you Dominika? And you will call me Anton—you run risks with courage and resolve, which is why the president has his eye on you. And so do I.” A spiderweb trap? Or the start of a rare allegiance in a Kremlin where there are no allies?

“I value your support . . . Anton.”

“Excellent. So we use Academician Ri for the time being to monitor those cabbage eaters and their infernal nuclear triggers,” said Gorelikov. “Meeting him in Vienna will be delicate.”

You have no idea, thought Dominika. “I have a support asset assisting me locally,” said Dominika.

“The Petrescu woman?” said Gorelikov. “She’s quite impressive.” Jesus, this elegant haberdasher knows a lot.

Gorelikov pushed the platter toward her. “More salad? There’s another delicate task the president intends to assign to you. He’s convinced the Chinese intelligence service, the MSS, is spying on us, a view I do not necessarily share.

“Since you are SVR Chief of Counterintelligence, President Putin wants you to handle official liaison relations with the Moscow representative of the MSS.” A lot to tell Benford, right away. A SRAC shot to Langley, tomorrow night, at the latest. After dinner with Ioana, just back from Vienna.

“It appears I will busy,” said Dominika.

“Welcome to the siloviki,” whispered Gorelikov, as he put more salad on her plate.