Palace of Treason (31 page)

“Listen to me,” she said, still holding his chin. “I know what you’re thinking, but get such thoughts out of your mind. You’re helping me, and you’re helping yourself. Zyuganov does not reward loyalty; he is incapable of gratitude. You’re at risk working for him, whatever you do, however loyal you are. I’m equally at risk. It’s only a matter of time before we fall under his thumb. So we both fight and survive. You and I will help each other, watch each other’s back. All right?”

Yevgeny didn’t move. The ivy stems scratched at the windowpane—
or was it one of the
Rusalki
, her mermaid friends?

“Zhenya,
think,
” said Dominika, tugging at his earlobe. “The only thing he cherishes is his own career. He’s keeping information from me, sending me off to Greece, because he is afraid of the inevitable: that Putin will
favor me in these matters, like in the Iran affair. I see the way the president looks at him. He dislikes him; he is repulsed by Zyuganov’s history in the cellars.”
Truth be told,
thought Dominika,
blue eyes probably admires him for all that
.

“I’m coming with you two to the Kremlin tomorrow,” said Dominika. “The director will be there, energy officials, ministers.” Yevgeny’s brow was beaded with perspiration. “So see for yourself, watch how Putin treats the little colonel.” She wiped the sweat off his upper lip with her fingers. “And watch how Putin greets me, then make up your own mind.” Yevgeny laughed a little at that. Dominika knew he invariably reported any gossip, dissension, scandal, or plot immediately to Zyuganov. But now Yevgeny himself was guilty of the massive infraction of having rutted with a subordinate, the very subordinate Zyuganov had directed him to keep in the dark. Yevgeny’s yellow halo was pulsing; he was calculating the consequences. Dominika swallowed as she leaned forward to kiss him, and the baby spiders tickled her arms and legs.

How long would his nerve hold? All but the most monumental human recruitments required constant firming up. Well, she would firm him up, then. Yevgeny would see how Putin reacted to her during the Kremlin meeting; he’d see that she would be the better ally. She intended to manipulate the outcome tomorrow, but it would be risky. Monstrously risky on several levels. She was ready to employ Benford’s plan, the one they had discussed in Vienna. Last night the latest SRAC message—also obviously from Gospodin Benford—had validated the plan. Benford was pushing her toward Putin, she knew, trying to get her imbedded under the president’s skin. But Yevgeny—she would have to keep an eye on him. Her ultimate safety now resided somewhere between his heart and his balls.

“So we protect each other, agreed?” Dominika said. His yellow halo quivered. “And we advance together.” Yevgeny reached up and stroked Dominika’s hair.
You’re a remarkable woman, do you know that?
thought Dominika.

“You’re a remarkable woman, do you know that?” said Yevgeny.

The Sparrow laughed. “I know I’m going to fetch some ice cubes from the kitchen. Do not move.”

The meeting hall of the Russian Security Council was in building number one—the Senate building—in the Kremlin citadel. Close to the private working office of the president, the medium-sized room was opulent, overwhelming, imperial. Half columns of black marble were spaced along the outer walls, their gilded Corinthian capitals reflecting the bright light of a massive two-tiered crystal chandelier. The room was soaked in light—Dominika noticed there were no shadows cast on the gleaming parquet floors. The massive table ran down the center of the room: leather blotters lined the edges, and a burled-wood strip dotted with microphone pickups ran down the center. A dozen straight-backed wooden chairs decorated with inlaid ivory darts, each with green cushioned armrests, were arrayed along either side of the table. Extra chairs were lined up against the cream walls for aides and note takers.

At the head of the table was a wide-backed chair—a throne, its back higher than the rest—covered in watered silk. Behind the throne, on the wall, hung a gorgeous tapestry and a scarlet shield with the double-headed golden eagle of the Russian Federation. Dominika stood in the doorway as senior government officials—ten of them—filed down the sides of the table.
The double eagle of the Romanovs had been black—ironic that modern Russians were no better off than the serfs of Tsar Ivan Grozny, the Fearsome, the Terrible,
thought Dominika. As if on cue, President Putin entered the room through a side door, trailed by two aides. The men around the table remained standing until the president was seated, then tumbled into their chairs.

This was an Iran planning session, not a Security Council meeting, Dominika knew. That council had lost influence and standing during the first and second Putin regimes—it was now an elephant graveyard for soon-to-be retired military and intelligence officials, the current SVR director being one of them. Accordingly, Zarubina in Washington was positioning herself to unseat him. As the most junior participant in attendance, Dominika was seated at the far end of the table, beside an agitated Zyuganov. The SVR director, a full member of the council, sat woodenly halfway down the table.

Dominika scanned the other faces, pinched in tight shirt collars, suit coats stretched across bellies, lank gray hair spilling over glistening foreheads. Putin’s insiders, the new politburo. Yellows and browns and blues swirled around their heads, a palette of greed, sloth, pride, lust, and envy. And gluttony. Govormarenko of Iskra-Energetika was halfway up the other
end of the table, picking his teeth. Dominika recognized the only other woman at the table—Nabiullina, one of the president’s closest allies and recent surprise pick as chairman of the Russian central bank—unsmiling and sitting at Putin’s left elbow, surrounded by a dirty yellow fog.

Then it happened. Putin scanned the assembled faces and the menthol blue eyes fixed on Dominika. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and an aquamarine tie that positively shimmered in the movie-set light of the room. “Captain Egorova,” he said, his voice cutting across the table. “Come and sit here,” he said, indicating with a wave the chair to his right. On stumps that had moments before been her legs, Dominika got up, walked through the unfolding black bat wings of Zyuganov’s insanity and past a frozen Yevgeny sitting against the wall, a notebook balanced on his knees. Eyes followed her down the silent room, knowing smiles on the faces of the wisest among them.

“Initsiativa. Talant,”
said Putin looking around the room as Dominika sat down. “Talent was critical in the matter of the Iranian procurement. And initiative. Our intelligence service brought this opportunity to light; Captain Egorova … and Colonel Zyuganov were instrumental.” He nodded down the table at Zyuganov, but the dwarf might as well have been sitting at a bus stop in Kazakhstan.

“And now we are in the final stage. The funds are available,” said Putin, looking over at Nabiullina, who moved her head imperceptibly. “And the seismic floor is being assembled as contracted.”

Down the table, Govormarenko held up three stained fingers. “Assembly completed in three months,” he said.
That will be the lead sentence in tonight’s SRAC shot,
thought Dominika.

“And the Germans will deliver the equipment as arranged,” said Putin. These were not questions, they were edicts.

“The cargo will be loaded on a Sovkomflot freighter in Hamburg,” said a man with bushy eyebrows. “The equipment will be off-loaded at Bandar Abbas in the Persian Gulf approximately one month later.” Putin’s blue eyes were unblinking.

All right Benford, just as we discussed.
Dominika took a quiet deep breath. “May I make an observation?” she said. Putin turned to her and nodded, his eyes locked on hers. “I know nothing about sea transport, or heavy machinery, but officers in our Service know some things very well.”
She didn’t dare look at their faces around the table, especially not at Zyuganov’s or the director’s.

“Cover,” she said. “Security. Stealth.”

The room was silent.

“As I understand the transaction, the Iranians have agreed to our proposal because they will receive the flooring—embargoed equipment—in secret. For them it is the most attractive part of the transfer, and they are willing to pay double for it.”

Putin kept staring at her.

“For a Russian freighter to transit from Hamburg to Iran would involve passage through the English Channel, the Strait of Gibraltar, the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and the Red Sea, the Gulf of Oman, then the Strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf.”

“Correct,” said the man from Sovkomflot.

“A route that includes some of the most closely monitored international bodies of water on the planet.”

“Also correct,” said Sovkomflot.

“And the ship would be off-loaded at the port of Bandar Abbas.”

“Yes.”

“I would be surprised if Western navies did not quickly document the arrival of a Russian ship with a massive piece of machinery, not to mention satellite coverage of the main Iranian port,” said Dominika.

“Unavoidable,” said the Sovkomflot man, nettled at being told his business.

“Unavoidable is not acceptable,” said Putin, turning to him. “The Persians will know all this, they will complain. The transaction could be jeopardized. This government would be embarrassed.”
You mean
my
transaction could be jeopardized,
thought Dominika.
And one does not embarrass the president,
she transmitted to the clueless official.

“And how else would you get a multiton cargo from Germany to Iran?” snorted the Sovkomflot man.

Please God, Benford, let your facts be right,
she thought. “Like we do in the Service,” said Dominika. “Unseen, through the back door.”

“Riddles—” said the Sovkomflot man, stopping when Putin put up his hand.

“Tell us,” said Putin.

“Instead of heading south, our freighter proceeds north from Hamburg to Saint Petersburg and off-loads the equipment. Completely routine and innocent,” said Dominika. “The shipment is then transported through Russia to a minor Iranian port on the south coast of the Caspian Sea.”

“Improbable,” said the Sovkomflot man. “Land transport would require a massive trailer. This cargo is bulky, as big as a house, weighs
over
forty tons. Even the military does not have equipment that capable.” A few cronies spoke up, more to participate than to assist.

“A transporter-launcher for a ballistic missile might be modified to accommodate—” began a bald man.

“That would take months, and road quality is uneven the farther south—” said another.

“Are you mad? Through the heart of the country?” said Sovkomflot.

“Weather would have to be factored in—” said Govormarenko, still picking his teeth.

Putin held up his hand. Royal-blue pinwheels of light flashed behind his head and shoulders. He did not glance at his barnyard geese around the table. Dominika saw that
he knew
she had the answer; he just didn’t know it came from Simon Benford. “Captain Egorova?” he prompted.

The room was silent.

“I looked at a map last night,” answered Dominika. “I had an idea.” A murmur came from the end of the table, which Putin ignored. Dominika didn’t dare look away from him. “From Saint Petersburg through the lakes, Ladoga and Onega, across Rybinsk Reservoir into the Volga canal, to the Volga, all the way downriver through the delta at Astrakhan, then traverse south on the Caspian to Iran and the northern Persian port of Bandar-e Anzali.” She looked at the faces and turned again to Putin. No one around the table would say anything until they were told by the president himself what they should think about the proposal.

“Waterborne, discreetly delivered directly from sovereign Russian territory to Iran,” said Dominika. “The entire route is established: canals, lakes, inland seas, used by motorized barges that have the capacity of hauling three times the weight. They already haul timber, steel, coal, and gravel, including in darkness and all kinds of weather.” The corner of Putin’s mouth was twitching. “And Tehran pays, secrecy is preserved, and along with it Russia’s reputation is, again, advanced,” said Dominika.
Meaning of course
that President Vladimir’s place on the world stage is augmented as is, not incidentally, his bank account.

The square-faced Nabiullina sat back in her chair. It was said she was brilliant, a Putin ally, protective. She was fifty, had shoulder-length auburn hair and bird-wing-shaped wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She wore a rust-colored jacket over a flowered bow-tie blouse. Her voice was like melting ice cream. “As you said, Captain,” said Nabiullina, “you have no experience in shipping or transport. How is it you came up with this quite remarkable plan? How did you think about our internal river and canal system? Officers in your Service admittedly must be imaginative and flexible, but this is a remarkable performance.” The message read:
It’s a little more complicated than shaking your tits, missy; this is the Kremlin, and that’s the president whom you’ve just given
a presidential boner.
Nabiullina crossed her hands and smiled at Dominika, who smiled back.

Thank you, Benford,
thought Dominika,
for being so smart
. He had anticipated the challenge and had suggested the correct answer.

“I thought of the river because I remembered seeing commercial traffic on the Volga near Kazan,” said Dominika, “when I attended the Kon Institute. You may have heard of Sparrow School?” Dominika looked at Nabiullina steadily, fighting the anger swelling in her throat. It was excruciating to bring this up publically, but Benford had predicted the effect. “We were brought to the institute by hydrofoil on the river, and we used to walk along the Volga between training sessions. I always saw barges on the river. That’s what reminded me.” The reply read:
I have my own credentials,
sestra,
sister, and don’t think for a minute I cannot handle dour economists or Vladimir’s
stoyak.

Nabiullina stared at Dominika for a beat, reading the reply, acknowledging the psychic challenge. Putin was delighted with the exchange, the corners of his mouth threatening to lift in a smile. He stood up, pointed at the Sovkomflot representative as if to say “get going” and then nodded all around the table. That was enough of a prompt. As participants rose and milled, waiting for the president to leave the room, Putin stopped for a second and nodded again to Dominika, then exited the hall, Nabiullina and two aides in his wake. The side door closed with a click and people started filing out.