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 illfated 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.