The ballroom was abuzz and raucous. Different groups of supporters waved signs printed with FREEDOM FOR RUSSIA, and PUTIN MURDERER, and OUT OF FREE UKRAINE. A number of other placards were printed in Cyrillic. Blokhin nudged Dominika to look at one of these that said HANG PUTIN BY THE NECK. Blokhin’s face had taken on a sleepy-eyed languor that, had she known the Spetsnaz sergeant better, would have telegraphed his building rage.
An official came onto the stage, spoke about donating funds to Daria Repina’s Free Russia Movement, then began a lengthy introduction, which was briefly interrupted by a knot of young students waving little Russian flags and chanting “Repina, posh?l ty,” which loosely translated meant “Repina, fuck off.” Blokhin and Dominika exchanged glances. They knew these pro-Russia agitators were one of the tentacles of the Kremlin’s active-measures octopus, a global machine designed to perpetually sow discord, drive wedges, and influence opinion. Tomorrow it might be dezinformatsiya, disinformation in a respected US or international paper; the day after, a forged document that would inflame the Arab street against socialist Europe or pit member EU states against one another; and the day after that, political sabotage to fuel a coup in Montenegro to destabilize the Balkans. Active measures were an unceasing staple of the Kremlin’s foreign policy, and had been since the Bolsheviks annihilated White Russian exiles hiding in Europe in the 1920s.
A brief scuffle between agitators and supporters broke out, chairs were overturned, and hotel security bustled the pro-Russia hotheads out of the ballroom. As their departing chants died away, the lights dimmed, a spot focused on the podium, and Daria Repina walked onstage to thunderous applause. She was tall and gaunt, with short brown hair in a tight pixie cut that fell in bangs to one side of her face. Her face was severe, lined by the strain of opposing, campaigning against, and exposing the crimes and corruption of the Putin regime for close to a decade. She had begun her jihad against Vladimir Vladimirovich as a little-known journalist, and was muzzled, shoved, and fined by the police for her misdemeanors. The world began noticing when Repina began touring Europe and the United Kingdom, raising awareness during impassioned rallies—the famous speech at Royal Albert Hall in London marked a turning point—and the Free Russia Movement was born. After two months in the United States, serious money started pouring in, and Repina became the face of dissident Russia.
Coy interviewers frequently asked her if she feared for her life. After all, Daria had been preceded by prominent journalists, disloyal government officials, and opposition party luminaries, all of whom were now gone: Nemtsov, Berezovsky, Politkovskaya, Khlebnikov, Litvinenko, Estemirova, Lesin. Shot, poisoned, or fed Polonium-210, they all had been eliminated as threats to the president’s sole priority as head of state: to preserve his kleptocracy. Daria would invariably reply that Putin’s time was running out, because what he feared most—Russian citizens demonstrating in Red Square—was an inevitability. The eyes of the world were on her now; she was inviolate.
Repina started speaking. Her mannish voice was electric, her passion and energy flowed into the ruby-red halo that shone about her head and shoulders, proclaiming passion, courage, and her love for the Rodina and for the people of Russia, once serfs, then inmates in a Soviet Union without windows, and now, impossibly, serfs again, crying out to the West to understand, to help them be free.
When Repina came out from behind the lecturn with the microphone in her hand like a rock star, and railed against the corruption, and the plunder, and the assassinations, and the wars, and the unholy alliances that had to end, the audience came out of their seats and cheered. Dominika kept her face impassive, but inwardly she was amazed to hear a Russian speak the truth, and give voice to her own indignant rage that had pushed her to CIA and a mortally dangerous life as a spy. She, Dominika, was working in the shadows, underground, while Repina was standing on the ramparts, in full sight. Her heart raced; this was an epiphany: she wasn’t alone; her countrymen were with her.
Blokhin was still in his seat, chin slightly raised, eyes locked on Repina.
* * *
* * *
“I cannot listen to any more of this kramola, this sedition,” said Dominika, getting up, faking impatience. “I’m going to my hotel to sleep. I have an early flight.” Blokhin didn’t move, but kept staring at the tall crusader in the spotlight, who was walking back and forth along the length of the stage, now excoriating the siloviki, the remora attached to the belly of the great white shark, feeding off the tendrils of meat dribbling out of the apex predator’s jaws. “Don’t start any trouble tonight,” she hissed, but he ignored her. Dominika paused at the door to watch Repina onstage, thinking she’d like to meet this charismatic woman someday. Perhaps Benford could arrange it. Then she pushed through the door, late for her rendezvous with Gable (she planned to tease him about her being tormented all day by memories of his kiss, to watch him squirm). A last look at Blokhin, whose black wings were unfolded over his head like a raptor about to take flight.
Repina’s presentation had concluded, and she was surrounded onstage by press reporters, admirers, and even people asking for autographs. Blokhin was standing quietly at the fringe of the hangers-on, smiling pleasantly and applauding with the rest of the crowd. It took an hour before Repina and her assistant, Magda, a scruffy young Muscovite activist, were free to go to their room on the sixth floor of the hotel (paid for by the City of New York). They were escorted by two officers of the NYPD, Sergeants Moran and Baumann, veterans of the force—Baumann had served on NYPD SWAT for six years before blowing out a knee during an assault and returning to regular duty. Both men had volunteered for this light protective detail because they needed the overtime; this gig qualified as premium double overtime, and there wasn’t any heavy lifting, basically just sitting on a hotel couch watching TV, eating chips, and drinking Coke. Going to the rallies was a pain, but no one was going to mess with Repina in New York City. Both sergeants were in civvies—they wore tweed sports coats over white shirts with Glock 19s in belt holsters on their right hips. Blokhin’s practiced eye saw the slight bulges of the 9mm pistols through the cops’ coats—called “printing” in concealed-carry circles, but not normally a concern to uniformed cops.
Blokhin just caught the elevator with the four of them, apologetically skipping through the closing doors and nodding courteously to them as he moved to the back of the car. Magda was chatting with Baumann, while Repina stared at Blokhin, her Russian nose sensing something familiar about him, his face, his clothes, the pheromones coming off him.
“Na kakom etazhe vy khotite?” asked Repina quickly in Russian, What floor do you want? Blokhin blinked at her, and in slightly accented British English said, “Excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t speak Polish.” Repina smiled back and asked, “What floor?” Blokhin said, “Five please,” having seen that Sergeant Moran, unmindful of one of the basic techniques of tradecraft, had already pushed the sixth-floor button, thus revealing their destination. Repina stared at Blokhin all the way up, and shrugged as he stepped out on the fifth floor with another nod and a muttered “good evening.” The two sergeants watched Scarface Blokhin walk down the hall as the doors eased shut.