Red Sparrow (30 page)

No one had to tell the old spook what to do about this.
He
told
them
what he would do. He knew how to pull the string with his fingertips, how to be the spider sitting on the web, waiting for the tremble of the radius threads. He would collect—softly, softly—more information when he could. Meanwhile, the words
SVR mole, Director’s Case,
and
Yasenevo
went on the office whiteboards of a dozen counterintelligence analysts in CIA headquarters. They were good at waiting, they would wait for months, even years, to fit more pieces into the mosaic.

The last evening, MARBLE told Nate that Anthony Trunk would within the next six months attend an economic conference in Rome as well as the UN General Assembly in New York, providing two future opportunities for MARBLE to travel out of Russia with plausible cover provided by the SVR’s pursuit of Trunk.

Headquarters was pleased with this round of MARBLE meetings and with Nate’s performance. A bonus was deposited in MARBLE’s secret fund account, and Nate was awarded a Quality Step Increase amounting to a salary bump of $153 per pay period, after taxes. “Wicked good,” said Gable when he heard about Nate’s QSI. “One hundred and fifty-three dollars. Just as long as they don’t fucking devalue your contribution. You realize you also get a voucher for six free car washes?”

At the end of the meeting series, before MARBLE returned to Moscow, Nate pushed gently about the general’s security. MARBLE rather nonchalantly acknowledged that since he and Nate had narrowly missed being rolled up
on the snowy Moscow street that one night—it seemed like a hundred years ago—there was a serious mole hunt going on inside SVR headquarters in Yasenevo. His old comrade First Deputy Director Egorov was convinced someone senior in the Russian service was spying for the CIA. “In other words . . . me,” he said with a laugh. Nate’s concern showed on his face.

“Look,” said MARBLE, “I am used to the risk. I know how my Service works. I know how that
zhulik,
that old fraud Egorov, thinks and operates. There’s no cause for alarm.” He thought to himself about fourteen years as Langley’s agent, of wakeful nights listening to footfalls in the stairwell, or feeling the tightness in his chest when called back to Moscow “for consultations.” He remembered the inexpressible wave of relief on seeing a full conference room after being summoned to a meeting. Others before him had entered an empty meeting room with the
ubijca,
the thugs, waiting behind the door.

The old man humored his intense young handler, and they reviewed their contingency plans for the biggest high-wire act in denied-area operations. Exfiltration. Smuggling someone to freedom. From inside Moscow, under hot pursuit, with family or with the mistress, curled tight in a car trunk or brazening it through passport control. After forty minutes MARBLE held up his hand. “Nathaniel, enough for tonight, I think. You are very thorough.” Nate blushed in self-conscious embarrassment and they said good night.

Now MARBLE was safely home and Nate was pleased to read effusive praise from Headquarters for the secure and productive meeting series with the agent. A cable had characterized Nate’s reporting as “well received
at the highest levels,
” cablese for the White House and the NSC.

Forsyth tapped him on the shoulder for a good job, and Gable bought him a beer. “All the kudos you’re getting, no one’s thinking about the agent,” said Gable. “It’s your responsibility never to forget him. You got that?”

The glow faded with Nate’s pressing problem. Dominika. Where was the case going? What did her admission that she worked for the
rezident
mean? If there wasn’t some progress soon, there would be complaints from Headquarters.

“Screw Headquarters,” said Gable, starting on another beer. “Just take it easy for a couple of weeks, bask in the glow of your recent scary-good performance, then we’ll decide what you can do next.”

Nate knew Gable well enough by now. “You really mean,
Get out of this chair and hit the street before I kick you out the front door,
don’t you?” said Nate.

“Yes, yes, in fact I do,” said Gable. “Go to the swimming pool. Find your SVR corporal. Bring her flowers. Tell her you were miserable without her, that you missed seeing her. Take her to dinner.”

“To tell you the truth, Marty, I
did
sort of miss seeing her,” said Nate, looking down at the carpet. He looked back up at Gable.

“Jesus wept,” said Gable, and walked out.

CAVIAR TORTE

Blend sautéed shallots, crème fraîche, and grated Neufchâtel cheese and pour mixture into a springform pan. Sprinkle with chopped boiled eggs. Spread a thin layer of small-gauge caviar (Ossetra or Sevruga) on top of torte and chill. Unmold and spread on blinis or toast points.

   
14   

Marta conspired with
Dominika in little ways. She helped her pad attendance and work logs to show activity, and together they talked out how Dominika could write contact reports that showed hopeful progress, while at the same time being sufficiently anodyne not to rouse the sleeping bear in the Center. She wrote of pleasant but inconclusive sessions with the American at a museum, a lunch, a coffee, veiled references to his almost languid unresponsiveness. “It makes him sound horrid,” said Dominika, “and it makes me sound horrible too. We’ll be two old maids, you and I!”

“You think so?” said Marta, lighting a cigarette. “Perhaps we’ll be like the two girls buying sausages. The butcher has no change, so he gives them an extra sausage. ‘What are we going to do with the third sausage?’ whispers one girl. ‘Quiet,’ her friend says. ‘We’ll eat that one.’ ” Dominika started laughing.

Volontov was constantly hovering, feeling the pressure from Moscow and passing it downhill. He saw the obvious friendship between the two women, the aging former Sparrow and her young friend. And Egorova was clearly abetted by Yelenova. Yelenova’s already chronic lack of respect and compliance was increasing and becoming more apparent daily.

It was a stormy day with sheeting rain coming in waves from the south, from Estonia. Dominika was out of the embassy when Volontov called Marta into his office. Marta sat without being bidden, squared her shoulders. “You wanted to see me, Colonel?”

Volontov looked at Marta without speaking. His eyes traveled from her legs to her face. Marta looked him in the eye. “What is it you wish, Colonel?” Marta repeated.

“I have been noticing your close friendship with Corporal Egorova,” said Volontov. “You and she seem to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

“Is there anything wrong with that, Colonel?” asked Marta. She lit a cigarette, lifted her head, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

Volontov watched her like a farm boy. “What have you been saying to Egorova?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Colonel,” said Marta. “We go out for a glass of wine, we talk about family, travel, food.”

“What else do you talk about?” Volontov asked. “Do you speak about men, about boyfriends?” The light from the fluorescent tubes in his office reflected from the sheen of the lapels of his Bulgarian suit.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” said Marta, “what is the reason for these personal questions?”

“
Sookin syn!
” Volontov slapped his hand on his desk. “I don’t have to give you a reason,” he bellowed. “Whatever you have been saying to Egorova, I want it to stop. Your well-known cynical attitude and jaded views are affecting her. Her productivity has dropped. She is falling behind in her assigned work. Her written reports are unsatisfactory. Leave her alone. Or I will take measures.”

Accustomed to and unaffected by the phlegmy bellows of Soviet officialdom, Marta calmly leaned forward and stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. His eyes flicked down to the opening in her blouse. She put her hands on the edge of his desk and leaned farther to give him an even better look. “Colonel,” Marta said, “I must tell you something. You are repulsive. It is you who should leave Egorova alone. Don’t sully her with your disgusting manner. She has done nothing wrong.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” yelled Volontov. “You’re nothing but an overripe whore,
blyadischa
! I can have you sent home tonight, trussed up like the sow you are. You’ll be manning a regional travel office in Magnitogorsk, where you can check travel permits all day and suck toothless Metallurg hockey players all night.”

“Ah, yes, Colonel, all the familiar threats,” said Marta. She knew this species of toad, this kind of coward. “But what about
this
threat, Colonel? I’ll go over your head. I’ll create so much trouble for you in Moscow that it will be
you
on
your
knees in Magnitogorsk. Vanya Egorov will not be pleased to hear that your
rezidentura
is a
svalka,
a trash heap, and your accomplishments are nonexistent. He will be quite interested to hear how you leer at his niece and dream of putting your face between her legs. Bastard.
Mudak
.”

This was colossal insubordination. This was treason. Volontov stood behind his desk and screamed at Marta. “Pack your belongings. I want you out of here by tomorrow night. I don’t care how: train, boat, plane. If you’re not gone by tomorrow night—”

“
Zhopa!
Asshole!” said Marta, who turned her back on Volontov and walked toward his door. Trembling with rage, Volontov tore open the desk drawer, scrabbled around in it, and brought out a small Makarov automatic, the pistol he’d had with him all his career. He had never fired it in the field, never fired it in anger. Now, with shaking hand, he racked the slide back to chamber a round. At the door, Marta heard the sound and turned. Volontov’s pistol was raised, pointing directly at her. “I’m not Dimitri Ustinov, Colonel Volontov. You and your kind cannot destroy every single thing you don’t control.” Marta’s heart was beating; she didn’t know if Volontov would pull the trigger.

Ustinov? The murdered oligarch? Butchered in his penthouse, buckets of blood, rumored Mafia vendetta? Volontov had no idea what this bitch was talking about, but the 1950s-vintage Soviet vacuum tubes in his head heated up. His water-bug instincts told him there was something lurking under the surface, perhaps something very important. He lowered his pistol. Marta turned the knob on his office door and walked out. Colleagues were gathered in the hallway; they had heard the shouting.

Inside his office, Volontov smoked a cigarette and tried to calm down. He reached for the secure, crème-colored telephone labeled VCh for
vysokochastoty,
high-frequency. “Get me Moscow,” he said to the operator. After a thirty-second wait he was speaking to First Deputy Director Egorov. Two minutes later he had been given instructions. These included: Ignore what Yelenova had said to him, repeat it to absolutely no one, and do nothing more. Volontov was about to protest that this sort of insubordination would undermine his authority. Over the scratchy line, Egorov told him to pay attention.

“
Yest’ chelovek, yest’ problema. Nyet cheloveka, nyet problemy,
” said Egorov. A chill ran through Volontov. He knew that one by heart. One of Comrade Stalin’s aphorisms:
If there is a person, there is a problem. If there is no person, then there is no problem.