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.”