“There’s the small matter of pitching a Chinese lieutenant general in Chinese-controlled Macao,” said Westfall, the innately practical analyst in him showing.
“The Aussies have an access agent in the casino who’s been buttering the general,” said Holder. “They can get him to a quiet restaurant on the beach, out of town. It’s not that tight, operationally. Macao is nothing but casinos, a Special Administrative Region under the control of the Guangzhou MSS, and they thumb their nose at Beijing. They don’t do anything too squirrely to upset the tourist industry—they all make money on the side.”
“As long as they’re not watching the general already, we probably can swing it,” said Nate. “If he says yes, how do we handle him?”
“Just get him into harness and we’ll do the rest,” said Holder, obliquely, which suggested to Nash that Holder already had inside handlers in Beijing. They didn’t have a need to know. “An ASIS case officer in Hong Kong will watch your fanny.” Westfall stirred in his seat.
“I know I’m new to this and all, but I have a question,” Westfall said. “Nash would be on temporary duty in Hong Kong. There’s no diplomatic immunity for TDY personnel if there’s a flap, is there?” Nate winced slightly. Westfall didn’t know better.
“Nothing’s perfect,” said Holder. “This is too big not to try.” Westfall blinked at him. Holder pointed to a framed scroll with Chinese characters on the wall behind him.
“Know what that says? ‘If I offend you, I’ll help you pack.’ Old Confucian proverb.”
* * *
* * *
Eighty-four hundred kilometers east from Elwood Holder’s Headquarters office, Gelendzhik Airport in Russia’s Krasnodar Southern Federal District was bounded on the west by a low range of tree-covered maritime mountains, and on the east by the broad horseshoe-shaped Gelendzhilskaya Bay, which emptied out into the Black Sea, a deep-blue sheet of motionless glass this time of year. Dominika was met at the bottom of the stairs of the Sukhoi 100 by a blond courtesy hostess who looked sideways at the stunning dark-haired woman who walked with a barely perceptible limp, and who was dressed in what the hostess identified as the European style. She was going to “the cape”—no one called it Putin’s Palace out loud—which meant she was someone important. But the tailored jacket, the shoes, the expensive sunglasses meant that she was neither from some clunky ministry in Moscow, nor one of the pneumatic “hospitality greeters” brought in for long weekend parties, the majority of whose clothing involved sequins or feathers. In Russia, people who do not fit into familiar categories are usually dangerous and best left alone, so the hostess said nothing as she made sure this unsmiling beauty was securely belted into her plush seat in the AW139 VIP helicopter, closed the door, dogged down the handle, and stood with heels together and waved until the twin engines began a low growl and the rotors began turning, at which point she held on to her pillbox hat and ran.
The helicopter rose, banked sharply, straightened out, and followed the rocky coast for ten minutes before banking sharply again over a wooded peninsula that ended in a crumbling bluff down to the sea. Dominika caught a glimpse of a massive Italianate mansion surrounded by trees and flanked by formal geometric gardens that extended from the main house in all directions. Putin’s Palace. As they descended, she picked out paths through the forest that led to a dozen smaller houses, some of them perched on the edge of the seaside cliff. On land, another hostess with a clipboard—she was short, dark, and dour—rode with Dominika in the backseat of an electric cart behind two bulletheads in black suits.
Since she had been gifted a luxurious dacha by her new patron Vladimir—“Vova” was one diminutive of his name, a familiarity reserved for mothers, grandmothers, and mistresses—Dominika had followed Gorelikov’s suggestion to fly down for the weekend to see the dacha, and acknowledge the honor. The president earlier had told her about the gala event there in late fall, a time of glorious weather on the southern coast. “Friends and colleagues will gather there in early November for the Unity Day holiday on the fourth,” Putin had said. Unity Day was a traditional holiday reinstated in 2005, originally commemorating the Russian victory in 1612 over Polish invaders. An extra holiday and a few wreaths placed on the monuments kept the popular approval ratings up, and was cause for a two-day bacchanal at Putin’s Palace. “I expect you to come and enjoy the scenery,” said Putin, with a half smile first perfected in AD 41 by Caligula.
“Go down there now, and get the lay of the land,” Gorelikov had added confidentially, rubbing his hands, blue halo pulsing. “It will impress the jealous ones that he gave you a dacha. They’ll all assume the obvious, and will be afraid of you.” He’s grooming me to be Director, thought Dominika. I wonder when he will become my svodnik, my pimp.
The dacha—her dacha—was a modern-stark three-story cement villa decorated in sleek Scandinavian style, with swoopy chairs in white leather and stainless steel. The main floor consisted of a foyer, a living room with sliding glass doors that led to the balcony looking out over the cliff face and the sea, and a modern galley kitchen in white with stainless-steel highlights. The top floor was one broad master bedroom with a two-acre bed and its own picture window and balcony, while the bottom floor had two additional bedrooms and a small cedar-lined banya, a Russian steam room. Looking out over the balcony railing, Dominika could see a stony goat path beside the villa that hugged the cliff face and wound its way down to a boulder-strewn beach seventy meters below. The villa was perched on the side of the incline, and the balconies virtually soared over the cliff.
Bozhe, God, this was beautiful. Dominika opened all the sliding doors to smell the sea air and the fragrant pines, took off her shoes, opened cupboard doors, bounced on the bed, and took off her jacket and skirt and lay in her underwear on a chaise lounge on the upper balcony in the warm October sun. She found a bottle of Georgian champagne in the small refrigerator and poured herself a glass, and sat outside again looking at the distant sea and listening to the cicadas buzzing in the trees. There were no other houses visible, no man-made sounds at all. In Moscow it was almost freezing, and some frost dusted the rooftops. Here it was still summer.
This was luxury, this was privilege, this was a universe away from the pall of Moscow. The sea breeze tossed the gauzy white curtains as Dominika stepped into the gray-tiled walk-in shower, and she sniffed at the rose-scented soap, and let the hot water loosen her muscles, and she turned, trying to imagine Nate standing close, soaping her back, but Blokhin was there instead, grinning like Shaitan, water coursing off his face, his paws bloody, and Dominika shook the image away, suddenly cold despite the hot water, and closed her eyes.