This all skittered through her mind in a second. Putin was saying something, and she struggled to focus.
“We now must wait for fortune to smile on MAGNIT,” said Putin. “In the meantime, Colonel, I want you to renew the liaison relationship with the Chinese MSS general; what is his name?”
“General Sun,” said Dominika.
“He claims his service has a counterintelligence problem, and they want our assistance. I don’t trust them at all. See what he has under his fingernails, find out what he wants from us. We don’t need any surprises from Beijing. Men’she znayesh’, krepche spish’,” said the president. “The less you know, the more soundly you sleep.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said Dominika.
“And now lunch,” said Putin. He led the way down a parquet-floored corridor with white walls picked out in gold leaf, and onto a broad sunny terrace ringed by a heavy white balustrade. At the center of the terrace, under a billowing canopy, was a table set for three, with sparkling crystal and elegant plates with blue and gold borders. On each plate was a ramekin, swaddled in a nest of snowy linen. Dominika could smell the heavenly aroma of crabmeat and Imperial sauce. The tops of each ramekin were baked golden brown, and the sauce still bubbled around the edges.
“Crab Imperial,” said Gorelikov. “Marvelous. We used to eat this in Odessa as students.”
“Try a forkful, and see if this is not better,” said Putin. The delicate crabmeat melted in Dominika’s mouth. An ice-cold Vernaccia was the perfect wine, and she accepted a second glass. But the image of Daria Repina floated in front of her: the sun went behind a cloud, and the piquant Imperial sauce in her mouth turned to copper.
Dominika would add this news about the murder to her thermos concealment for tomorrow’s personal meeting, but she would withhold Blokhin’s name. He was hers, and she vowed to kill Sergeant Iosip Blokhin herself someday.
* * *
* * *
“Didn’t I tell you the president had his eye on you?” said Gorelikov in the official car back to Moscow.
Dominika smiled. “It’s quite an honor. I can hardly believe it,” said Dominika. “And congratulations on your award.” Gorelikov bowed graciously.
“I was a bit surprised to hear about Repina, though,” said Dominika. “What actually happened? You could have told me, Anton, seeing as how I was meeting SUSAN.” Gorelikov waved her comment away.
“Repina was beginning to embarrass the Russian Federation, the Russian people, and the president,” said Gorelikov. “We previously sent emissaries discreetly requesting that she moderate her activities and manifestoes. She chose to ignore those requests.”
“So Blokhin was assigned to eliminate her? In America, in midtown New York City? What would have happened if there had been a mishap? This is bad operational security. I should have been warned. Really.” Gorelikov patted her hand on the center armrest.
“Shlykov guaranteed that there are seldom mishaps when Blokhin is assigned a mission,” said Gorelikov. “Besides, I did not want you burdened with the foreknowledge of the impending action. You sound upset that Repina was dealt with,” he said. Tread softly here, but show a little flag, thought Dominika.
“I have scant sympathy with citizens who would harm our country,” lied Dominika. “But I will tell you something, Anton. If I had known of the plan to assassinate Repina, I would have tried to disrupt the plot. Russia is skilled and ingenious in achieving its goals—and no one more so than the president himself—but destroying dissidents sullies the Federation and makes them enduring martyrs. We must abandon the old ways.”
Gorelikov looked at her, then turned to stare out the car window. “I happen to agree with you,” he whispered, “but the president knows his mind, and has the requisite experience. I have mentioned to him the exact views you have just expressed, and he realizes the cost, and is willing to pay the price. Kak auknetsya, tak i otkliknetsya, what you shout into the forest, so shall the echo come back to you.”
* * *
* * *
Gorelikov called Dominika back to the Kremlin the next day, ostensibly to backbench a meeting of the Security Council, but in reality to introduce her to the most powerful men in the realm—a coming-out appearance for the soon-to-be SVR Director. These siloviki could be potential allies or, if their interests diverged, lethal adversaries. They all obviously respected Gorelikov, and wondered whether Dominika was more than a rising SVR star, or merely the new pintle-maid of the president. To a man, they dropped their eyes to assess her jutting top hamper, today draped in a black wool knit dress, which accentuated her curves. First there was Nikolai Patrushev, former Director of the FSB, now influential secretary of the Security Council, with thinning hair, a lined narrow face, a slash of a mouth, and the hook nose of a Cossack, all backlighted by a yellow halo of cunning and distrust. He was marginally polite before turning away. Dangerous.
Then Alexander Bortnikov with the surprising cerulean halo, strong and constant, suggesting ratiocination and regard. The FSB Director was sixty-five years old, slight, and shorter than Dominika. He had a high, broad forehead and startling gray-blue eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled. He had a large mole on his left cheek and a fleshy nose, a hint of the raptor in him. Dominika knew he was an engineer by training, and it was whispered that it was he who had directed the FSB operation in London to spike dissident former KGB officer Litvinenko’s afternoon tea with enough lethal Polonium-210 to heat an apartment block in Voronezh for a month. Dominika knew Bortnikov would be wise, sly, cautious, and cunning—he also would be her security service counterpart for internal domestic security if Dominika was handed the Directorship and SVR’s foreign intelligence portfolio. She resolved to establish good relations with him.
Finally there was Igor Korobov, an air force lieutenant general and Chief of the GRU, crisply uniformed, with a shaven head, steel-blue eyes, and the green aura of career trepidation from being head of military intelligence in a club of former KGB cohorts. Major Shlykov hovered behind Korobov, doubtless currying favor by kneading his chief’s buttocks periodically. Korobov nodded stiffly at Dominika, but Shlykov ignored her. You tried to torpedo me in New York, you bastard, she thought. Worse, you sicced Blokhin on me—he would have left me in some alley after eliminating Repina, if he’d had the chance. She measured the inches from his smirking face.
Gorelikov stepped between them before Dominika could put her thumbnail in Shlykov’s eye and whispered for her to take a seat against the wall behind him, as Putin gaveled the Council to order. For the next utterly unreal two hours, the Council discussed Operation OBVAL (Landslide), which was conceived, refined, planned, and proposed by Shlykov, who guaranteed success and stunning results. The covert action, whereby Russian weapons and explosives would be smuggled to Kurdish guerilla separatists to be used in terror attacks in Istanbul to destabilize Turkey, was a massive active measure on the extreme end of the scale. Gorelikov and Bortnikov opposed the plan, both pointing out that the military aspect was exceptionally risky and that such a supply-the-rebels-with-guns operation was laughably 1960s Soviet primitive. Bortnikov called it a reckless misadventure—all the more so in Turkey with its vigilant and aggressive police and security services. Lieutenant General Korobov disagreed, saying this insurgency would destabilize the southern flank of NATO, a theme he knew, all of them knew, would gain the president’s favor. Which way would it go?
Dominika saw Putin looking at her down the length of the chamber table. What was she going to do if the Pale Moth (one of the president’s old KGB nicknames) tried to hoist a leg over her one night in her luxury dacha?