Bathed in the pale yellow of sycophancy, the three aides—this many factotums was a notable indication of her status—led Dominika through the circular domed Catherine Hall, its colonnade rich with gilt Corinthian capitals, along endless corridors with the reflected light of a hundred crystal chandeliers, and down a final hallway with a frescoed vaulted ceiling alive with angels, cherubs, and seraphs. (What must they have seen and heard since 1917? The private apartments of both Lenin and Stalin were on this third floor.) They stopped at an inconspicuous and unadorned wooden alcove. An aide knocked softly once, opened the door, and minutely inclined his head toward Dominika. Putin’s office was wood paneled and narrow, an unprepossessing desk against the far wall. The president was standing behind the desk turning the pages of a file. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and red necktie. He looked up when Dominika came into the room, and wordlessly gestured that she should sit at the small table in front of the desk. She sat with her hands in her lap. The simple travel dress she had worn on the plane was barely appropriate for the Kremlin, but Dominika resolved not to care. Gorelikov was not present—that was strange—and her spine tingled. Without speaking, he sat opposite her and rested his hands on the table. His blue aura—intelligence, guile, calculation—was strong and bright.
Did he expect her to speak first? Did her performance as CI sleuth in Istanbul somehow raise suspicions? This is what Stalin used to do: summon terrified subordinates and stare at them. At least it wasn’t three a.m. in a superheated dacha.
“What happened in Istanbul?” Putin said, without preamble. I met with my CIA handler and besides dictating fourteen intelligence reports on current compartmented SVR operations, alerted Langley to the Turkish active-measures initiative designed to neuter a Western ally and abet your unholy regime. My CIA handler and I also made love after I danced naked for him in the grand salon of a Bosphorus mansion.
“Major Shlykov is a galloping egotist, whom the Americans suborned with emoluments that have yet to be determined,” said Dominika without inflection. “Line KR investigators will extract the truth soon.” She held Putin’s gaze.
“Leave it,” said Putin, waving a hand in the air. “Shlykov committed suicide in his cell last night.” Suicide? Not likely; he loved himself too much, thought Dominika. Sleep tight you bastard, you were going to blow up children in Istanbul.
She kept her face impassive, but felt the refrigerator chill of the president’s eyes. “Unfortunate,” said Dominika. “There never was any doubt of his guilt.” There was no way Putin would advertise a covert-action failure with a noisy public trial, she thought. Shlykov was doomed from the start. Dying secretly and unmourned in prison was a common fate of miscreants since the days of the Bolsheviks.
“I congratulate you again, Colonel; your diligence and energy are exemplary,” said Putin. “You’re becoming quite the mole catcher.”
Dominika willed herself to be still. “Spasibo, Mr. President,” thank you, said Dominika, and kept quiet after that. She read this man closely, watched his colored aura. He did not value fawning, talkative sycophants—he looked for efficiency, discretion, and loyalty.
“Once again, the Americans intrude,” said Putin. “Istanbul was a debacle.” Dominika again suppressed laughter. You have no idea zolotse, nugget, thought DIVA.
“They wish to isolate Russia in the mirovaya zakulisa, the world backstage,” he said. There it was, Putin’s favorite domestic trope—the conspiracy of Western leaders against Russia—to stoke nationalism and distract attention from food shortages in the cities. Never mind that Putin’s terror plot was defeated. Never mind that her dear president’s estimated personal net worth from plundered national coffers was $100 billion.
“A momentous opportunity exists to unseat America,” said Putin. “I wish you to become involved in our plans.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika. Is he going to mention MAGNIT?
“I want you to work with Gorelikov on the case.”
“This case is the one managed by Shlykov and the GRU?” asked Dominika.
The president gave her a vinegar smile, and shook his head. “The case, it belongs to me,” Putin said. His cerulean halo pulsed with the unspoken ancillary thought that Dominika could read plain as day: And so do you.
* * *
* * *
Gorelikov was eating lunch, waiting for her in his office, visibly apprehensive at not being invited to the private meeting between the president and Dominika. A lunch cart was beside his desk. His simmering blue halo suggested he was nervous lest Putin think he and Egorova colluded to undermine Shlykov and his operation.
Mindful of the Kremlin chandeliers that hear every conversation, Dominika reassured him discreetly. “The president complimented me on a counterintelligence coup,” she said knowingly. Gorelikov’s face relaxed. He pushed a plate of golden Crimean carrot fritters toward her, slathering one with yogurt sauce for her.
“You heard about Major Shlykov?” he asked.
“Suicide in his cell?” said Dominika.
Gorelikov leaned toward her, whispering. “His loyal aide Blokhin was given the opportunity to atone for being detained by the Turks and pitched by the Americans. Apparently quite a disgrace among the Spetsnaz groups.”
“Blokhin killed him?” Nate had told her about pitching Blokhin in a Turkish police station. The brute must have been humiliated.
“The traditional bullet behind the ear,” whispered Gorelikov. “We find it useful to retain some of the old traditions. Shlykov’s nerves deserted him at the last minute. They stuffed a rag in his mouth to stop his screams—like Yehzov in 1940 and Beria in ’53—nothing’s really changed from the charming early days of the Revolution.”
“Loyalty for superiors runs deep in GRU, obviously,” said Dominika.
“Blokhin is a maniac. But with Shlykov’s demise I believe the Istanbul covert action will be forgotten. FSB Chief Bortnikov likewise is pleased. He told the president he admired the way you wrapped up the matter.” Don’t thank me, thank the Americans, she thought. “Another carrot fritter?” said Gorelikov, holding it out to her, like feeding time at the petting zoo. Executions in basements and yogurt-smothered carrot fritters. Today’s Russia.
Gorelikov picked up a file folder. “We have spoken about this before, but I would like you to set aside a few hours to meet the new MSS representative to Moscow, three-star General Sun Jianguo, of Chinese State Security,” Gorelikov said. “Reports directly to the Minister of State Security in the State Council in Beijing. He speaks excellent English, from a previous posting to London. Beijing recently initiated contact, discreetly, claiming they want to improve and expand cooperation with Moscow, and the relationship between security services is a place to start. General Sun arrived last week to assume his duties.”
“After the glavnyy protvnik, the Main Enemy, these Chinese termity, these termites, are the biggest threat to the Rodina in the future,” continued Gorelikov, looking sideways at Dominika. “You know counterintelligence, you have winning ways, so see what this rice-eater has to say, what he has under his tongue. The president wants to know how we can benefit.” Winning ways, thought Dominika. I’m sure you’re referring to my ops skills.
“Do you think he is susceptible?” asked Dominika.
“If he has predilections, they will become apparent in time,” said Gorelikov, casually. “Men, women, children. Spirits, drugs, gambling. Tasting pain, or inflicting it, we’ll know soon enough.” Dominika smiled knowingly, hiding her contempt. My Rodina, land of black earth and fragrant pines, my country, transformed by you heroes into a back-alley clearing house of vice.
“Even as we watch the dragon carefully,” said Gorelikov, “China may be useful in depleting US influence on a second front.” He bent to prepare another fritter for Dominika, but she held up a polite hand in refusal.
“China could be very useful,” said Gorelikov, counting on his fingers. “Alternate petroleum markets, military-equipment sales, cyber operations against American infrastructure, a tangible challenge to US naval hegemony in the Pacific. A cooperative allegiance with Beijing could potentially be of great benefit. Naturally you will assess the feasibility of intelligence operations against these Maoists here, in Beijing, and in Hong Kong.”
“I will run traces on General Sun. Perhaps something useful will appear.”
Gorelikov shook his head. “We’re doing this on our own, you and I; let’s see where this takes us.” Dominika realized that she was becoming Putin’s personal operational fixer. Another success—with Chinese liaison for instance—would almost certainly win her the Directorship of SVR.
She took another swing at MAGNIT. “The president mentioned Shlykov’s sensitive case. What is the status of that?”
Gorelikov smiled. “All in good time,” he said. There may not be time to wait before your damned mole reads my name, Dominika thought.
* * *
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