He was black; no surveillance team—not even those TNP pros—could stay undetected so completely and still know where he was. He had rented the little Hyundai that morning from the lobby of the M?venpick Hotel in Maslak, so he was not sweating vehicle beacons. He knew DIVA would be as thorough, running a tight route before she got on the ferry. Given the splash she’d made by bagging Shlykov, a too-long absence from the rezidentura would be risky. Nate was not sure they’d have even five hours for debriefings. Nate’s final SDR leg—memorized by studying maps like an actor memorizes lines—was along Macar Tabya Caddesi, working his mirrors, and catching glimpses of the water between the trees. He drove through the gate, closed it behind him, and coasted down the gravel drive to the house. Its three stories, with ornate roofline, was painted pink with white gingerbread trim, incongruous in the piney woods.
Nate quickly surveyed the opulent interior. Triple doors on the ground-floor salon led outside to the breezy veranda with the Bosphorus glittering in the morning sun. There was a narrow strip of grass between the house and the pier. White wrought-iron lanterns were spaced along the breakwater wall. Some pasha must have had glittering soirees in this house, thought Nate. Time check. 0900 hours. She’d be here in three hours. He sat on a low couch in the Ottoman-style living room and reviewed his notes. He had rehearsed what he would say to Dominika, but he didn’t know if he could avoid telling her about Gable despite Benford’s orders. Would she still be furious at him? Now she was inside the Kremlin, enveloped by the approving embrace of President Vladimir Vladimirovich. She probably would become Director of SVR, and would be generating staggering intelligence for Langley. Her latest reporting had averted an apocalyptic terror campaign in this city.
Nate was sitting in the relative dark of the room, doors open, the long gauzy sheers floating in the wind. He peripherally registered movement on the lawn. It was Dominika, holding a small case in her hand. She had somehow gotten through the gate (or over the wall?) and come around the side of the house. Two hours early. Nate did not move, watching her through the French doors. She faced the water, dropped her bag, shook out her hair in the breeze, and looked at a freighter thrumming down the channel. She lifted one foot, then the other, slipping sandals off her feet. Her dark-blue summer dress billowed in the breeze, right out of Wuthering Heights. Nate walked to the open door and leaned against the frame.
“I’m sorry, but the property is not for sale,” he said. Dominika did not turn, but continued to look at the water.
“Are you the owner?” said Dominika over her shoulder.
“I represent the owners,” said Nate, stepping down to the grass and walking up behind her.
“Are you sure they will not consider selling?” she said. She turned around and brushed wind-blown hair off her face. She took a step toward him. They were inches apart.
“How much are you willing to offer?” said Nate.
“For a view like this, price is no object,” said Dominika. She put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Nate lightly held her waist. They stood like that for a long minute, then Dominika stepped back and wiped her wet cheek.
“Kak ty?” she whispered, in Russian, how are you?
“Privet,” said Nate, Hi. “I missed you.” Business now. “How did you get here early? How long do we have today? I’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I took a different ferry, then a bus, then I walked. It was a lovely morning.”
“When are you expected back?” said Nate.
“I told them I was conducting a security survey; no one will question me.”
“How long?” said Nate, who could feel his scalp.
“Tomorrow night,” said Dominika. “I return to Moscow the next morning.”
“You can be out of pocket that long? Are you sure?”
Dominika nodded. “And where is Bratok?” she said. He rarely missed a meeting with her.
“He’s away on a trip,” said Nate, without inflection.
They had two days together, alone. Nate looked at her, the high cheekbones, the straight nose, the smooth forehead. There were new faint lines around those blue eyes that flitted over his face, reading the corners of his mouth, looking for clues about them. The bubble popped when Nate said they should go inside and get to work. Dominika smiled, reached for his hand, and walked barefoot with him into the house. His halo had flickered when he mentioned Gable, but she ignored it.
* * *
* * *
Dominika was on the parquet floor, sitting cross-legged on a plush rust-red kilim pillow. Nate was on the couch, which was covered by sheets of yellow legal pages from the last three hours of debriefing. Nate had also recorded the entire session on his TALON note-taking tablet. It was common practice to both record and take notes: the former would be a precise record of Dominika’s words and intelligence reports, the latter a more convenient summary from which to draft cables to Headquarters.
A spiral map book of Moscow lay open on the floor. It had been annotated by Dominika to designate possible new dead-drop and SRAC sites, if she ever received replacement SRAC gear. They reviewed exfiltration pickup sites, the ones Moscow case officer Ricky Walters had described. Dominika sniffed that the exfil sites should be saved for those hysterical assets who would agree to defect in time of crisis.
“Domi, stop being dramatic,” said Nate. “We have to be prepared to get you out if something happens.” But he said it halfheartedly. Usually they argued about defection passionately. She noticed it.
After three hours, they both were tired. Dominika had filled in a lot of detail from her abbreviated previous reports dead-dropped in Moscow. No SRAC gear replacement was on the horizon. And there were still no hints regarding MAGNIT.
“There is one more important item,” said Dominika. “Please make sure Benford is aware of this.” Nate nodded. “The SVR has established contact with the Chinese intelligence service.”
“The MSS?” said Nate. Russia and China? This could be big, he thought.
“At the orders of the president,” said Dominika. “But something is not right. We do not trust them and they do not trust us.”
“Then what is the point of opening relations?” said Nate.
“We are exploring possible areas of mutual interest,” said Dominika. “But I think my exalted president wants something bigger. Tell Gospodin Benford that it is my guess that Putin will do what he can to worsen relations between China and the United States. It is only my guess, but tell Benford that.” An agent’s opinion—a source comment—was valuable.
“Domi, this is important. Can you get more details as it develops?” said Nate.
“Of course. The Kremlin—Putin—has already designated Line KR as the lead office to meet with Chinese representatives. He wants me to report directly to him. I have not received specific operational directions, but the MSS are deceitful. Podozrevat, I smell a mouse.”
“You smell a rat,” he said. Dominika shrugged. She had stretched out her slim legs and was touching her toes to work out the kinks. “When you know more, let us know. But go softly, be careful,” said Nate.
“Thank you for the tradecraft lesson,” she said, nonchalantly, trying not to smile. “I am to meet the Chinese general in Moscow when I return.” Nate made more notes, but she knew something was wrong. Nate’s halo was faded and waning.
“Is something bothering you?” she asked.
Nate buried his head in his tablet. “What?” he said.
“You are acting strangely.” She wondered if she would ever tell him about the colors. She decided to try to distract him. “You should try stretching, to relax, like we did in ballet.”
Demurely holding her dress down, she extended each leg out to the side in a perfect split, toes pointed, then leaned forward to touch her chin to the floor. “In yoga, it’s called Upavistha Konasana,” she said, “in Sparrow School, the Divining Rod. What do you call it in CIA?” Her chin still on the floor, she looked at Nate and blinked once.