“You come from Washington?” asked Blokhin, tilting his head as if Nate had blown a dog whistle.
“Washington is close to New York City,” said Nate. “Ever been there? Ever been to the Hilton on Sixth Avenue?” Blokhin’s face was impassive but his pupils dilated.
“What do you want?” said Blokhin, sitting back in his chair. An opening? Work it.
“We both serve our countries loyally, sometimes endure hardships, but in your system there are no rewards except the pride you take in having served. But that will be gone when you return to the Rodina. They will take that away from you in the space of a deep breath.” Blokhin said nothing.
“We are not enemies,” Nate said, with a straight face. “We are both soldiers, in different uniforms perhaps, but we both understand loyalty. In America we value loyalty and friendship, and repay it. Our soldiers retire with benefits, and live in comfort.”
“What do you want?” Blokhin repeated.
“I have a proposal, a way for you to reap the benefits you have earned. Something for you, apart from Russia, and Spetsnaz, and Shlykov.” Blokhin waited.
“Talk to us about what is happening in Russia, in the army, in Spetsnaz,” said Nate. “Do it for yourself; you deserve the rewards.”
“I would dishonor my uniform, my oath,” said Blokhin, shaking his head.
“They dishonor you already,” said Nate.
“You dishonor me; your proposal is an insult.” He didn’t ask how much, he just slammed the door.
“I want you to know that authorities in New York have fingerprints and DNA found in Daria Repina’s hotel room,” said Nate. “They will be compared against samples just taken from you by the Turks. There is no doubt there soon will be an Interpol warrant out for your arrest, and Washington will request your extradition to stand trial.” Blokhin smiled thinly. He knew Moscow would never agree to that.
“What this means is that you will be obliged to remain in Russia indefinitely, to avoid immediate arrest by a foreign government,” Nate continued. “Your days as a clandestine military operator are over. This neudacha, this fiasco, in Istanbul will be your last operation, an unfortunate professional legacy for which you will be remembered.” A bit dramatic, that. Nate knew Shlykov was already well and properly framed, and Blokhin at most would be criticized and demoted for his part. The added indignity of being pitched by the Americans after being arrested would be intense. Blokhin got up from his chair, returned to the corner, and leaned against the wall.
“I hope our paths cross again,” said Blokhin in English.
* * *
* * *
As he walked out of the police station, Nate erased Blokhin from his mind. He was meeting Dominika tomorrow. Nate took a deep breath. Godamn hell, shit-bitch, as Hanefi would say. This was going to be tricky. He could attend to the debriefing professionally, no problem. Intel first, followed by ops intel and CI. Establish a sked for future meetings, then review security, sites, and signals. Doing all this in five hours (the last Bosphorus ferry back to town was at 1800 hours) was going to mean they would sit down and work straight through. It would mean Nate must keep his mind on business, even if Dominika put her slim, cool hand on his arm, or if her just-washed hair brushed his cheek, or if she laughed and stuck out her tongue at him. He would ignore that trademark sideways glance that meant she wanted him, invariably accompanied by the barely perceptible lifting of the hem of her skirt, a come-on from her Sparrow past. He could imagine Gable’s comment (“Nash’ll be playing twenty toes with her in five minutes”) and Forsyth would shake his head ruefully, disappointed.
Maybe he’d surprise everyone and instead convince her about coming out with him, defecting, quitting, leaving the danger, and the dread, and the risk, and starting a new life, together. What if she says, “Yes, let’s go, right now, I’m ready”? Nate thought. Besides meaning the end of his CIA career and the work that defined him, it would also mean the loss of the Agency’s best Russian source with irreplaceable access to Putin’s Kremlin. And he’d be the cause.
Dark ancillary thoughts emerged: Could either of them live without the sustaining excitement of this work, the knife-edge bustle of the street, the adrenaline high of stealing secrets from an implacable foe? What would their retired life be like? Would they look at the snowy Rockies from the porch of a log cabin? Or eat breakfast on a white balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay? Or throw another log on the fire in a cozy New England farmhouse? A conjugal dream or a constricting nightmare? Could either of them survive retirement? Gable always said that spooks dried up and died when they left the Game. Most Russian defectors went around the bend away from the Rodina; they missed the Motherland, the black earth, and the pine forests. Could he do that to her, to himself? Jesus, maybe he had scared himself straight, maybe she’d see the light too. Maybe they would move to the next chaste and professional level of superasset and sagacious handler, coolly taking care of business against Vladimir Putin and his predatory kleptocracy. Maybe.
And, anyway, what was that fucking Gable doing in Khartoum, now of all times?
TURKISH ZUCCHINI GRATIN
Halve small zucchinis lengthwise, then scoop out pockets, and fill with cubed feta cheese, chopped dill, and parsley. Cover zucchinis with béchamel and bake in medium oven until zucchinis are soft and topping is golden brown.
20
The Great Confluence
It was midnight. From the plane window coming in, Gable saw the bulbous, luminous blue-glass Corinthia Hotel on the river, a fat teardrop rising above the low brown wattle of Khartoum, otherwise punctuated only by a forest of lighted minarets. His plane banked farther and he could make out the al-Mogran, the Great Confluence, where the chocolate-brown Blue Nile joined the milky-blue White Nile. Outside the terminal, the brakes of the canary-yellow taxi squealed like a pissed-off baboon. Probably the red Sudanese dust on the pads, thought Gable. The shit gets everywhere. The drive from the airport to the US Embassy—it was south of town, on the banks of the Blue Nile—took an hour, down riotous four-lane Madani Street cloaked in blue exhaust, with traffic coming in and out from all directions, even at this hour. It was a familiar zoo. Khartoum. Gable was back on his old stomping grounds—the benighted Third World—where you debriefed recruited generals with sweat-shiny faces in gritty Land Rovers parked in stinking alleys, and the cotton-candy sandstorms three hundred feet high would rattle the house, red sand hissing under the door despite the wet towels jammed against the threshold, and where you got used to the sudden tire thump while driving at night, which was either something four-legged and furry, or a local sleeping off a tshwala beer bender in the middle of the road. You didn’t stop to find out, not at night.