And there was the matter of the mole in Headquarters. If MAGNIT read a list of the premier Russian agents currently working in Moscow, DIVA would be lost the minute Line S received the report.
But there was something else. Soviet officials used to say that the beginning of one’s ruin was the day one became Stalin’s favorite. Putin was the same, more telegenic perhaps, wiser in matters of commerce and public relations but with the same suspicions and implacable expectation that even trusted confederates could not be trusted. And he had Stalin’s capacity for violence. Dominika’s neck would be in the noose every minute. All the exfil sites in the world wouldn’t save her if she displeased her blue-eyed tsar, or if she put a foot wrong, or if she fell afoul of one of the siloviki.
Dominika had stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, a rivulet of sweat between her breasts. The music ended, and now she did notice the oscillating colors in the corner. Dai bog, bless the man, she thought, the inevitable fretting. She was not going to waste this night, or the next morning, in this beautiful villa with her Neyt. Stark naked, she walked to him, knelt between his legs, and put her chin on his chest. “You are a fool,” she said, looking into his eyes. Nate looked up at the domed ceiling sparkling with turquoise inlay. His purple halo swirled as if stirred by the sea breeze.
“We should review everything once more,” said Nate, stupidly. He couldn’t guarantee that Dominika would come out next month, or two years from now, or ever again. She read his mind.
“Glupets,” said Dominika. Dunce. “We have until tomorrow. Then I go home.”
“I want to go over the exfil routes again,” said Nate, like a French tutor.
“I know them all,” said Dominika.
“We should make sure of the pickup sites,” he said.
“We will not discuss exfiltration, not tonight,” she said firmly.
“Do you ever dream of an end to this?” said Nate. She raised her head to look at him.
“Dushka, I am too close to think of that now. The president wants me on the project with the Chinese. I am meeting the siloviki. They soon will tell me MAGNIT’s identity. I can feel it; there are enormous possibilities.”
“Getting close to Putin is priceless,” said Nate. “But it’s mortally dangerous. He’ll be watching your every move.”
“What is wrong with you?” Nate felt himself sliding down a slope.
“Marty Gable always told me the most important thing was to keep you safe,” Nate said. Dominika laughed.
“To keep me safe and receive the intelligence. That’s what he always said. If he were here he would tell you,” Dominika said, nuzzling him. Nate’s chest was numb, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Marty Gable’s dead. He died in Khartoum two days ago.” Dominika’s face fell. For a moment she searched his face, then her eyes filled up and tears ran silently down her face. She straightened and backed away from him.
“What happened? Were Russians involved? You knew from the time we met? When were you going to tell me? After another hour in the bedroom? Or when I finished dancing naked for you in the parlor?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you at all. I didn’t want to upset you. Not now.”
“You think I could not continue, that my grief would overcome me?”
“No. I knew I had to tell you. I didn’t know how.”
Dominika stood up, still luminous in the moonlight, and began walking to the staircase.
“What are you doing?” said Nate.
Dominika turned. “I am going to bed and mourn for my Bratok. Then I will return to the embassy on the early ferry and fly back to Moscow tomorrow night.” Her chest rose and fell with emotion.
“I am willing to risk everything for my country, for Forsyth, Benford, and Bratok,” she said. “For my parents, and for Korchnoi, Ioana, and Udranka. And especially for us. I need only one thing to be able to continue. I need to know you love me.” Nate got up and was going to take her in his arms, but she held up a hand to stop him. The salon was silent save for the tick tick of the phonograph needle stuck at the end of the record.
“We will say good-bye in the morning, and you can tell me then,” Dominika said.
“You know I love you,” said Nate. Dominika turned and walked up the staircase, an alabaster vision passing through bars of moonlight.
“I know,” she said. “I just want to hear it one last time.”
The bass-note foghorn of a passing ship in the Bosphorus channel drifted through the gallery windows, and filled the room up to the turquoise ceiling.
CHICKEN SAUTé WITH CHEESE—KASARLI TAVUK
Sauté onions, garlic, mushrooms, and tomatoes in olive oil, butter, and a splash of white wine. Add bite-size pieces of chicken breast and simmer, covered, until tender. Cover stew with Ka?ar cheese (or substitute mozzarella) and top with Turkish ezme, or a spicy tomato sauce. Bake until cheese has melted and is golden brown. Serve with rice.
22
Elephantine Failure
They didn’t even let her get through Customs at Sheremetyevo Airport. A small man in a suit that didn’t button straight stepped up to her in the arrivals line. A uniformed police officer stood behind him, heels together, watching Dominika’s face. A nanosecond of icy dread, then normalcy. The little man bowed and said he was from Protocol, and that a car was outside, code for “come at once to the Kremlin, the president is waiting.” On another day, the reception could easily be as cordial, until she was escorted into a reception room where young blond men—a dozen Valeriy Shlykovs—would push her down onto a straight-backed chair, an arm around her neck, and undress her while holding her arms and legs so she couldn’t swallow anything. And then take her to Butyrka Prison. Another day.
The familiar drumming of the Kremlin cobblestones filled the cloying rosewater-scented Mercedes as it sped through the crenelated tower of the Borovitskaya Gate. How many times would she hear the tires moan over these stones, the harmonic preparation before Putin’s next symphony? The car careered around the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, and past the Tsarsky Kolokol, the two-hundred-ton cracked Tsar’s Bell, never rung, never pealed, a metaphor for Putin’s regime. They traversed Ivanovskaya Square, the paved maidan guarded by the Tsarsky Pushka, the Tsar’s Imperial Cannon, an immense cast-bronze bombard never fired in war, and through the narrow Senate building gate. In the circular courtyard, dark-suited attendants waited on the front steps. In another age, they would have been dressed in strawberry pink imperial livery with pinchbeck buttons and powdered wigs.