Bortnikov goggled at him. “Are you mad? Why do you assume that?”
Patrushev ignored him. “Anton Gorelikov is a different matter. If he has defected, it is a potential disaster. Your services should have been more vigilant.”
Bortnikov looked across the table at him. “You are levying blame on Egorova and me? Are you serious? You are head of the Security Council with an oversight charter over all matters of State security. You share the responsibility.” Bortnikov was almost yelling, but Patrushev was blasé and unaffected.
“The FSB exists to catch spies in the Rodina. The SVR is supposed to run foreign assets who can give early warning of such breaches,” said Patrushev. “It is my observation you both fell short in these duties, and in consequence failed the president.” There it was, the cringing, blame-shifting, famous among the Kremlin siloviki, with no one taking responsibility, and everyone distraught and disapproving when the president was ill served by others. Dominika calculated that perhaps this criticism would push her and Bortnikov closer—at least until the next palace crisis. Bortnikov still goggled at Patrushev, and his blue halo flickered in agitation.
Dominika understood what Nikolai was doing, distancing himself from any responsibility. But she was now Director of SVR. It was time to assert herself, to establish a voice among these men who, along with the president, would be her competitors, allies, and rivals in the years to come. “With respect, I think no one deserves any blame, and it is unseemly that Nikolai pretends otherwise,” said Dominika. “One thing is certain. We will know clearly whether Anton Gorelikov is a CIA mole, and we will know the truth very soon.”
Patrushev and Bortnikov stared at her. “The proof will be apparent within four or five days,” said Dominika. “If in the next week important SVR assets in the United States are compromised, then it must be the inescapable conclusion that Gorelikov is CHALICE. This is conjecture, but if it happens, it is incontrovertible proof.” That should nail down the notion of Anton’s guilt.
“How do we brief this to the president?” said Bortnikov. Patrushev offered no guidance.
Dominika leaned forward. “Given that Anton was one of the president’s closest advisers, I think care should be taken, great care, not to insinuate that the president himself was incautious, or overly trusting, or blind to the obvious signs, if any, that Anton was going down the wrong path.” The two magpies on the other side of the table nodded their heads.
“If it suits you, gentlemen,” said Dominika, fingering a striking strand of pearls around her neck, “I can brief the president on this difficult situation. We are lucky that we have the American case officer in Moscow to use as a bargaining chip. We can use the American to exchange for our assets, and additionally demand the extradition to Russia of Gorelikov.”
“Since it was your idea,” said Patrushev, relieved, “it would certainly be appropriate for you to brief the president. Don’t you agree?” he said to Bortnikov.
“Absolutely,” he said. “The president likes and trusts you.”
Dominika nodded. “That would be satisfactory,” she said. “Then all we have to do is wait. I intend to return to Moscow tonight to monitor the situation from Yasenevo.” And I want to see Nate.
* * *
* * *
Audrey Rowland walked in the twilight on the raised boardwalk over the bog on the northern end of Theodore Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River between Rosslyn and the John F. Kennedy Center in the heart of Washington, DC. The island was part of the National Park System, and would close in ninety minutes. Pedestrian traffic was light. An old coot had been fishing off the causeway bridge that connected the island to the parking lot on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, and two blue-hairs with cameras had passed Audrey fifteen minutes ago, chattering like parrots and idiotically looking for birds to photograph. After that, she was alone. As she walked soundlessly on the planks of the boardwalk in the failing light, lumpy things—turtles and frogs—occasionally splashed in the brackish, reedy water, but otherwise the forested island was eerily calm.
The boardwalk curved east, and the lights of Georgetown and downtown DC were coming on, visible through the dense foliage. Audrey stopped and sat on the secluded bench designated as the meeting site, looked at her watch, sat back, and listened. The creeks and pops of the deciduous forest were muffled by the drone of the evening traffic on the nearby Key and Roosevelt Bridges. Otherwise nothing. Audrey had been making clandestine meetings for a long time, and was accustomed to the jittery stomach and damp palms that came before making contact with her GRU handler or, more recently, with SUSAN, the illegals officer from New York. Meeting with this creepy bitch was a lot safer than meeting someone from the Russian Embassy, but Audrey didn’t like her. There was something superior about her attitude; she didn’t acknowledge Audrey’s rank or importance. Audrey already had resolved to tell Uncle Anton that she wanted a different commo system, and she was sure the Russians would comply, especially since she was two days away from Senate confirmation as the new Director of the CIA.
The confirmation hearings on Capitol Hill had been a joke: legislators read rambling prepared statements and asked extraneous questions off lists handed to them by spotty staffers just out of college. Audrey played the professional navy vice admiral, and the scientist preeminent in technology, weapons, and communications, advances in which would mean less spending and reasonable budgets for the navy while continuing to ensure national security. The addlepated senators, Democrats and Republicans alike, liked the fact that Admiral Rowland was an outsider, a sexless woman, obviously apolitical, and would steer CIA in the right direction, away from profligate spending and away from nefarious covert actions and similar extralegal behaviors.