“I will look forward to it,” said Dominika. Putin’s face softened as his eyes settled for an instant on the tight buttons of her tailored blouse under her navy suit. I’ll kill Benford if he asks me to do what melon head is thinking right now, she thought.
Dominika was used to men staring at her figure, and reveled in staring them down. But it was different with the leers of the president. They had a history of sorts. She shuddered as she remembered Putin’s late-night visit to her room years ago during the weekend at the palace outside Saint Petersburg. He wore red silk pajamas and walked in without knocking. Sitting upright in bed in her lacy nightgown, she had held the bedclothes up under her chin to cover herself, then remembered she had to captivate the tsar and lowered the sheet. She had dared to put her hand in his lap as he ran his fingers inside the full cups of her babydoll, to demonstrate her willingness, but her practiced (Sparrow) ministrations had, to her alarm, no immediate effect on him. The president had silently departed soon after, but the encounter hung over them, a preordained coupling sometime in the future, whenever the tsar would appear to claim his prize. And she would let him. She had to.
“Schastlivogo puti,” said the president. “Bon voyage.” He got up, nodded at Gorelikov, and exited by a separate side door that was opened by one of a score of werewolf aides who were always lurking. The door clicked shut, and Gorelikov sighed. Directing Putin’s one-man Sekretariat was a trial.
“I’ve ordered a light lunch,” he said. “Will you join me?”
* * *
* * *
They walked down the corridor to a small executive dining room and sat at a table. A waiter wheeled in a cart with a platter under a silver cover. “Sel’d pod Shuboy, herring under vegetable salad,” said Gorelikov, serving Dominika a plate. “I hope you like it.”
“It’s very good,” she said, thinking that the average young Russian probably never tasted such a delicacy.
Gorelikov chewed thoughtfully. “Too much mayonnaise,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I have much to tell you.”
“I will appreciate your guidance,” said Dominika.
“First, I must mention that the president applauds your service record. He is following your career with interest.” Unfortunately with an erection, thought Dominika.
“I predict he will promote you in the next trimester. The Directorship of SVR will follow, in my view.”
Gorelikov’s blue halo held steady, suggesting that he was telling the truth. “The president also likes Major Shlykov,” said Gorelikov. “Perhaps he admires how naglyy, how brazen he is.”
“Do we terminate Academician Ri in favor of the MAGNIT case?” said Dominika.
Gorelikov shrugged. “I agree that your case has merit, an invaluable look inside the Hermit Kingdom’s nuclear program. But I predict the president will tire of pitting the North Koreans against Beijing, and withdraw his support. We can decide later.”
“I am still not clear how one case threatens the other,” said Dominika. “Both streams of intelligence will be handled in compartments.”
Gorelikov observed how much ops sense this beauty had. He toyed with the notion of briefing her on MAGNIT, but decided it was too soon. He admired how she was not shy about pressing her point, even to a superior in the rarified air of the Kremlin. He strongly suspected she would be suitable for what he had in mind. “Shlykov believes the fact that the North Koreans are receiving railgun technology incontrovertibly reveals that an American source exists. If MAGNIT continues to move up, the case will eclipse all others and must be protected.”
“Is MAGNIT that good?” said Dominika. Last question, don’t press.
“The asset has the potential to be the best source in the history of our intelligence efforts against the Main Enemy,” said Gorelikov with a chuckle, “if you’ll excuse that old Soviet phrase—the Main Enemy—which, incidentally, is enjoying a resurgence in this building. You should keep that in mind.”
“I will,” said Dominika.
“Good. Now for politics,” said Gorelikov. “Beijing is agitating the region with those damn artificial islands in the South China Sea. They’re defying Washington; they’re annoying the president. Putin wants to distract the Chinese, insert himself between the Beijing politburo and Pyongyang, and shake up the cozy relationship that’s been unchallenged since the fifties.”
“But forgive me, I can see the merit in active measures to disrupt the relationship, but at the cost of letting them have the bomb?” asked Dominika. Gorelikov laughed.
“I know, I asked the same question,” said Gorelikov.
This man is a right-thinking adviser, thought Dominika, not a lickspittle. “It just seems like quite a risk,” said Dominika. “My experience with the Iranian nuclear program taught me that research and development can stall, then accelerate unpredictably.”
Gorelikov smiled at her. “Our work is fraught with risk,” he said. “You yourself run risks every day, don’t you?”
The familiar douche of icy alarm ran up Dominika’s spine, the ageless affliction of the clandestine agent who lives with the dangling dread of discovery every waking moment. What’s that supposed to mean? An innocent comment? A coy hint that she is somehow suspected? Nate would howl in distress and demand anew that she immediately defect.
“Your experiences with the Iranians were risky, your duel with the lamented Zyuganov was risky, the spy swap in Estonia was exceptionally risky,” said Gorelikov. “No, Dominika—may I call you Dominika? And you will call me Anton—you run risks with courage and resolve, which is why the president has his eye on you. And so do I.” A spiderweb trap? Or the start of a rare allegiance in a Kremlin where there are no allies?
“I value your support . . . Anton.”
“Excellent. So we use Academician Ri for the time being to monitor those cabbage eaters and their infernal nuclear triggers,” said Gorelikov. “Meeting him in Vienna will be delicate.”
You have no idea, thought Dominika. “I have a support asset assisting me locally,” said Dominika.
“The Petrescu woman?” said Gorelikov. “She’s quite impressive.” Jesus, this elegant haberdasher knows a lot.
Gorelikov pushed the platter toward her. “More salad? There’s another delicate task the president intends to assign to you. He’s convinced the Chinese intelligence service, the MSS, is spying on us, a view I do not necessarily share.
“Since you are SVR Chief of Counterintelligence, President Putin wants you to handle official liaison relations with the Moscow representative of the MSS.” A lot to tell Benford, right away. A SRAC shot to Langley, tomorrow night, at the latest. After dinner with Ioana, just back from Vienna.
“It appears I will busy,” said Dominika.
“Welcome to the siloviki,” whispered Gorelikov, as he put more salad on her plate.
SEL’D POD SHUBOY—HERRING UNDER VEGETABLE SALAD
Finely dice boneless herring fillets. Separately grate cooked carrots, potato, peeled apple, and hard-boiled egg whites (reserve yolks). Finely grate cooked beets (drain well) and whip with mayonnaise to make a velvety spread. Layer grated ingredients in a deep oval relish dish, pressing each layer firmly, starting with herring, potatoes, a thin coat of mayonnaise, carrots, apples, and egg whites, then mayonnaise, herring, potatoes, and carrots. Completely cover compressed salad with the beet spread on the top and sides, like frosting a cake. Garnish with finely grated egg yolk and refrigerate. Serve with crusty country bread.
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