“I advise you to sit down and cooperate,” said Dominika, looking up at him. Shlykov bent over her, and stuck his face in hers. The FSB men sat on the edge of their chairs.
“Your reputation precedes you,” said Shlykov. “The wonder girl with the big sis ’ki, the well-titted-out prostitute trained to suck off—”
Dominika’s hand shot out and grabbed Shlykov’s jutting bottom lip between forefinger and thumb, and pulled down hard. The major grunted with the pain and went to his knees. Dominika twisted his lip and slammed his head against the edge of the table. Shlykov sat on the floor and held his head. His lip had already swelled and gone purple, and his right eye was closed.
“Consider yourself confined to the rezidentura,” said Dominika, standing. “You can sleep on the duty-officer cot. A security officer will be with you at all times.” She turned to the FSB men.
“Get the keys to Comrade Shlykov’s residence, both front door and apartment,” she said. “I want to go there now.”
At the apartment, the FSB bloodhounds did Dominika’s work for her—she didn’t have to prompt them at all. In fact, she praised their diligence. They gathered all the papers in Shlykov’s desk drawer and found the suitcase under the bed and showed Colonel Egorova the telltale marks on the lid, suggesting some tampering. They hefted the big wooden chessboard they found on the upper shelf in the front closet, shook their heads, and were going to leave it.
Dominika shrugged, pulled out more drawers, and rummaged around the closet. “Strange,” she said. “Have you found chess pieces, a chess set?” The FSB men looked around, shook their heads, and suggested they take the chessboard back to the consulate and examine it under the fluoroscope used to screen incoming mail and packages. Dominika looked doubtful.
“Very well,” she said. “It’s better to check, to be thorough.”
“Bez truda, ne vitashis i ribku iz ruda,” said one of the FSB men loftily, without effort you won’t pull a fish out of a pond.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Dominika. “Let’s see what we find.”
* * *
* * *
Iosip Blokhin had not appeared anywhere in Istanbul during the disastrous failure of OBVAL. There had been a firefight between TNP shock troops and PKK cell members barricaded in a private house in the historic Rumelihisari neighborhood on the Bosphorus that had been fierce and prolonged, suggesting that the normally unsophisticated PKK terrorists had received tactical advice from a professional. A police picket line in the woods around the house detained a stocky man making his way through the trees as the shooting began tapering off, and he was taken into custody in the police precinct house in Arnavutk?y on the basis that he had no identification.
When the burly man in East Bloc English claimed he was a Russian diplomat and demanded to see a consulate official, the police lieutenant called the coordinating captain (it was Hanefi), who in turn called his American friend Nathaniel Nash and offered him the opportunity to speak to the Russian who the Turks strongly suspected was a professional soldier. Hanefi said he could give Nash an hour alone with the Russian before Russian dips arrived to spring him. Nate accepted and quickly called Benford to say this had to be Blokhin who, Dominika was sure, had killed the two women and two cops in New York, her North Korean asset, and her Sparrow in Vienna.
“Go hard on this ape,” said Benford. “Pitch him—your cover’s blown to these Bolsheviks anyway—and tell him we know what he did. Say we got him on Hilton Hotel security cameras, to protect DIVA. Tell the son of a bitch the next time he shows a hair of his ass outside Russia, we’ll extradite him to New York to stand trial for the dissident’s murder,” said Benford. “Burn him so badly he’ll be useless to them from now on.”
“It’s highly unlikely, but what if he’s ready to play ball? How high are you willing to go to get him in harness?” said Nate.
“Three years substantively working in place inside, he gets one million dollars. He wants out now, he’ll get two hundred fifty thousand dollars after a meaningful debriefing in the United States. Money contingent on production—the usual. See if that shakes his tree. Get something solid from him as a sign of good faith before you agree to anything,” said Benford.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him tonight and let you know,” said Nate. “I’m prepping for the meet tomorrow with Domi. I’ll get over there early and get things set up for Marty. When’s he get in?”
“He’s not coming,” said Benford, thinly. “I had to send him to Sudan; a wheel came off in Khartoum Station.”
“Marty’s not coming?” said Nate, his stomach flipping.
“I trust you heard me, unless your ears were affected by the blood rushing to your lower extremities,” said Benford.
“Gable is DIVA’s primary handler,” said Nate.
“And you are her backup officer,” said Benford. “You know how this works, Nash. You debrief her, review commo and sites, make sure she is operating safely. Did you receive the requirements cable?”
“It came in this morning,” said Nate.
“Then go and do your job,” said Benford. “And endeavor not to ruin the asset with your beastly manner. Or do I have to come out there myself?”
“No, I’ll handle it,” said Nate. “You’ll get a wrap-up cable when we’re done.”
“Good hunting,” said Benford, hanging up.
* * *
* * *
Blokhin was in a small gray interrogation room at the police station that was bare except for two metal chairs. Hanefi met Nate outside the door and they took turns looking at him through the peephole.
“Bir esek oglu,” muttered Hanefi. A son of a donkey. “Nate bey, he looks dangerous. Dikkatli ol, be careful. Do you want a man in the room?” Nate shook his head. “Tabanca?” A pistol?
“No. I want to squeeze him and don’t want him to lose face. But if you hear me screaming, come in and shoot him,” said Nate.
“I am thinking he is in Istanbul for organizing the cells,” said Hanefi. “With no diplomatic papers we put him in Silivri Prison for twenty years, but because Ankara fears trouble with Moscow, he is free after you finish with him. Iyi sanslar, Nate bey, good luck.”
Nate pulled open the door and stepped into the room, which was dimly lighted by a single bare bulb. Blokhin stood in a corner, leaning against the wall, his tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. There was a bruise under his right eye, probably a corrective love tap from a TNP jailor who didn’t like Russians. Nate sat in one of the chairs and slid the other chair a foot toward Blokhin, an invitation to sit, but the sergeant remained standing. Nate knew he was unlikely to find this guy’s buttons, but there was nothing to lose. A brief bio on Blokhin had been spun up, but there wasn’t much.
“Sergeant Iosip Blokhin,” said Nate in fluent Russian. “Congratulations on the sharada, the charade of last night. I thought Spetsnaz was better than that.” Blokhin stared at him.
“It’s hard to imagine you going along with such a half-baked plan, but that’s GRU for you—amateurs,” said Nate. Blokhin didn’t move. Push another button.
“Of course you’ll be blamed for the unsatisfactory operation,” said Nate. “No one in the Kremlin, or the Security Council, or the General Staff will support you. Major Shlykov will cast you aside, like the pack animal he thinks you are. They may even cashier you out of Spetsnaz. What group are you in? Alpha or Vympel?” Blokhin uncrossed his arms, pushed off from the wall, and stood behind the metal chair looking down at Nate. He slowly sat down, back straight, hands on his thighs. Nate braced for a lunge.
“You are CIA?” Blokhin asked. His voice was like gravel poured out of a bucket.
“If they kick you out of Spetsnaz, what will you do in Moscow?” said Nate, ignoring the question. “Become a driver on a city tram? Collect tickets at Dynamo Stadium? Do you have a family to feed? Parents?” Come on big boy, tell me something, anything.