She hit the street, wanting to get away before Blokhin appeared, determined to clear her six so she could call Bratok. Never mind the FBI, now she had to worry about Gorelikov’s tricks, her own countrymen following her. Did Gorelikov’s vliyaniye, his influence, extend to the streets of New York? Who would they be, the people checking up on her? Well, she had survived this long spying for Nate and the others, and wasn’t about to be played. As she left the hotel and walked east, she put on the big fashion sunglasses that were designed by the boys in Line T, with beveled mirrors ground into the outer edges of each lens, which permitted a limited view behind her. You didn’t rely on such toys—detecting coverage on the street was much more complicated—but it did not hurt to have them.
Dominika walked for three hours, searching for and finding relatively quiet side streets, stripping away repeats, possibles, ghosts, and suspects. If her cell phone was beaconed and her route plotted later, she would be guilty only of executing a thorough and professional surveillance detection run. She used Union Square as a surveillance trap, knowing that any team scurries to cover exits along all sides of a park and inadvertently show themselves. She scanned the outer edges of the park. Nothing. She plowed up endless, bustling Fifth Avenue, the Empire State Building coming closer with each block—beckoning, bigger, taller, and somehow more substantial than the Vystoki, Stalin’s gothic Seven Sisters skyscrapers in Moscow. Nothing showed behind her. Occasional switches to the other side of the street revealed no telltale behavior of handing off the eye. She reversed her direction by taking a taxi south, past the Washington Square Arch, bailing out and walking through the urban campus of New York University to detect pedestrians who stood out among younger casual students. Nothing. Dominika popped into The Smile restaurant on Bond Street—she liked the look of the weathered boards on the ceiling and the rich brick walls—and asked to use the phone behind the bar, explaining in an exaggerated French accent to the skeptical barmaid in a dirty apron that she was from France, and that her mobile phone did not receive service in New York. Besides, I’m calling my CIA handler to discuss foiling a Kremlin attack on the political and security foundations of America, with the express goal of preserving your gravy-stained way of life.
She left her phone in her coat pocket, and hung the coat on a wall hook away from the bar. Bratok answered on the first ring. She told him about her cell phone and the old lady at the hotel, his low chuckle reassuring and comforting. He kept his comments short and cryptic, they’d reviewed meeting procedures a hundred times. “Five o’clock, go to the museum and wait outside. Got it? I’ll be looking out for you.” The line went dead. Gable had just told Dominika to rendezvous with him at the Monkey Bar, at three o’clock. The power-lunch restaurant was renowned for the iconic celebrity murals on its walls (hence “the museum”). Gable had also cryptically told her she’d be countersurveilled as she walked to the restaurant on East Fifty-Fourth Street. She wondered whether it would be the old team again, whether she’d see Nate’s slim features across the street, whether she’d hear his voice, and whether he’d sit beside her close enough to touch him, feel the heat of his body, smell him . . . Stop it.
* * *
* * *
Gable was chewing an unlit cigar and driving a wheezing, beat-up sedan with torn plastic seats and an Orthodox cross hanging by a plastic chain from the rearview mirror.
The officers from Benford’s CID countersurveilling Dominika gave Gable the all clear, and he had pulled up, thrown open the passenger door, and scooped her off the sidewalk in front of the Monkey Bar. Once rolling, he put fingers to his lips, nodding at the cell phone in her hand. He made two violent right turns, narrowly missed a pedestrian, and careered through crosstown traffic at high speed, shooting the gaps between taxis, trucks, and buses. After one near collision, Dominika reached up, grabbed the swinging cross, and theatrically kissed it. Gable winked at her, delighted. He ran a red light and cut left across oncoming traffic to turn onto Ninth Avenue in the direction of Dominika’s hotel. In classic alteration of surveillance detection run (SDR) pace, Gable now drove south slowly in the right lane, letting honking, gesticulating New York drivers pass him. They were black, no tails. After ten blocks, he swerved to the curb in front of a dingy storefront restaurant with “Turkish Cuisine” written in a faux mosaic over the door. He gestured for Dominika to leave her phone under the seat, and follow him into the restaurant.
The place was dark and cozy, with copper trays and ceramic nazarlik, blue evil-eye talismans, mounted on the walls. Gable ordered a ?oban salad, two kebabs, and kiymali ispanak, sautéed ground beef, spinach, and rice. “You’ll love it,” said Bratok. “Nash and I used to eat it at a Turkish joint in Helsinki.”
“Helsinki,” said Dominika, staring. “Skol’ko let, skol’ko zim, so many summers, so many winters; it seems like a million years ago.” Gable looked at her while chewing a piece of bread.
“Yeah, we’ve all come a long way, you most of all,” said Gable. “Now tell me what’s going on.” Dominika sat back and talked fast. She told him about Gorelikov’s instructions and the meeting with SUSAN. She showed him the EKHO phones—they would not be hot-wired if they were meant for an illegal—thinking he’d want techs to take them apart to inspect, but Gable shook his head. “They could be trapped to reveal tampering, and you’re the only one who holds them.” Dominika described the meeting site on Staten Island.
“You know how to take the ferry?”
“I studied the entire route. I know how to get there,” said Dominika.
“This illegal, what’s she look like?” said Gable.
Dominika shrugged. “It was a little black-and-white photo,” said Dominika. “Blond, reading glasses, steely blue eyes. Short hair.”
Gable rubbed his face. “Christ,” he said. “A top illegal in the city and we can’t ID her. How many more of them out there, I wonder.”
“There is no way of knowing,” said Dominika. “Line S, the external illegals department, and Line N, the officers who handle them in-country, are compartmented from the rest of the Service, even from me in KR.” The food came to the table and Gable spooned a mound of glistening spinach onto Dominika’s plate. She tried a forkful. It was a savory combination of sautéed spinach and curried ground beef with a hint of rice. Delicious. And Nate used to eat it. The question popped out before she could stop herself.
“Bratok, where is Nate? What is he doing?” said Dominika.
Gable put down his fork. “Benford sent him to take care of another op. In Asia. Right now, that boy is busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor. He’ll be back in a couple of weeks. You steamed at him again?” Gable just asked questions, no matter how sensitive.
Dominika smiled. “In Russia we say nalomat drov, to mangle the firewood. You say to mess something up. That’s our love affair. Messed up.”
Gable patted her hand. “I’m not supposed to say this to you,” said Gable, “but you should either cut it off with him once and for all, or defect and concentrate on your lives together. Maybe recruit your replacement before you go. Loving each other and spying at the same time is gonna get someone hurt.” Dominika was silent; she knew Gable understood her. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he said, smiling. Then he got back to business.
“You gotta fly straight with that Spetsnaz guy hanging around. Let him see you nice and relaxed.” Dominika nodded. “Make the meeting with that gal on Staten Island alone, but otherwise keep him close. He’s going to file a trip report and you want them all to think you were never out of pocket. We’ll meet once more after your meet with the illegal. And try to get some ID on her without being too obvious.” Gable waved to a young man at a table across the room and Lucius Westfall walked over.
“This droopy bit of wet wool is Westfall,” said Gable. “He’s backup if you see him on the street, here to help you and me if we need it.” Dominika smiled and shook his hand, noting a blue halo quivering with nervousness. She felt sorry for him, especially since she knew what a bear Gable could be.
“Glad to meet you, Westfall,” said Dominika. He nodded wordlessly, obviously overcome at meeting the famous DIVA. He’d had no idea she was so beautiful. He turned and left the restaurant after an awkward final bow.