“The president just yesterday asked whether you liked your dacha at the cape,” said Gorelikov, conversationally. “He looks forward to taking you around the mansion, to explain the restoration work, and to show you the famous antiques of Tsar Alexander.” Dominika read the message: Her weekend at the dacha (naturally) was a matter of record, but her meanderings about the palace with the young Pole Andreas had been noticed (cameras, bugs, or security?), including their peeking into the master suite. She remembered now that Andreas had told her the ornate bed had belonged to Tsar Alexander. The end of the evening with Andreas in her dacha was presumably also known, but Dominika didn’t care. Gable long ago had told her always to assume uncontrolled rooms were bugged, and that the best way to reassure the watchers was to feign ignorance of the surveillance, demonstrating guiless innocence. “Let them see you alone in bed,” Gable had said, “hands under the covers moaning, crashing the yogurt truck. Give ’em a show.” Dominika had pretended to be shocked, telling Gable Russian girls didn’t do that. “Probably why most of ’em got mustaches,” he had said, and she had called him nekulturny, laughing. How she missed him.
There was another component to the president’s invitation: with the acuity of a Sparrow, she knew Putin would not hesitate to lead her into his capacious bedroom, dismiss his bodyguards, and determine whether his new Director of SVR would follow any and all directions. What would she do? Benford would probably tell her there were no limits, that access was the ultimate goal. Gable would tell her to bring a tin snips with her and shorten the already diminutive president by a couple more inches. Nate would go red in the face, caught between duty and jealousy. Wise, experienced Forsyth would take her aside, hands on her shoulders, and advise her to tell Vladimir that if he wanted a Sparrow she would get him one, but if he wanted a Chief of the foreign intelligence service, there could be no thought of anything more; she’d kill for him, but she wouldn’t share his bed. God knew what his reaction would be.
It still didn’t solve the problem of how to warn CIA that Nate was a target. Gable had once spoken to her about a “doomsday option,” a hypothetical situation in which Dominika found out about, say, an imminent Russian nuclear attack on the United States, the start of World War Three, with no way to pass the intel. In that case she was to flash her SVR colonel’s credentials, shoulder her way past the FSB militsiya guard at the front gate of the US Embassy, and get the information to the Chief of Station. It would burn her bridges, it would be the end of her spying, and probably her life, but a crisis like that would be the threshold. But there was no time even to contemplate that; there was no time left. She had brooded all evening and was exhausted as she packed a small suitcase at home.
Oh, she knew very well that a lone officer’s life was expendable, including her own, in the grand scheme. She knew CIA would not equate the possible assassination of Nate with the start of World War Three. Benford would say DIVA’s life was overwhelmingly more valuable, and that the equities weren’t even close. He would say Nash had to take his chances, and she had to stay safe. Her legs shook. She was on her way to China to advise these MSS fanatics how to put Nate in a bottle, with no way to save the man she loved. She couldn’t watch him butchered, couldn’t see his blood spreading in a pool under his head. Being caught while warning him in Hong Kong would be tantamount to revealing everything to the MSS, and word would get back to Moscow. They would be waiting for her at Sheremetyevo when she returned, no longer the favored girl in the club, now a predatel, a traitorous Judas. The panic was like a choking lump under her tongue, and her chest felt tight.
The next morning, the black limo sighed up to the curb in front of Dominika’s Moscow apartment, the door opened, and General Sun stepped out, resplendent in his formal uniform. For the first time, his yellow aura was pulsing, perhaps in expectation of returning to the Middle Kingdom, his homeland. The driver hurried to put Dominika’s suitcase in the trunk.
“Well, Colonel,” said the general, “are you ready for our most excellent adventure?” He held the door open for her.
“I cannot tell you how excited I am,” said Dominika.
KOMPOT—RUSSIAN FRUIT DRINK
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Pit and slice apricots, pit cherries, wash blueberries, add fruit to water, and boil, uncovered, until fruit has broken down. Remove from heat, add ample sugar to taste, and let cool. Strain the juice and refrigerate. Serve chilled.
28
The Tibetan Gong
“It’s not bad,” said COS Burns, putting his feet up on his desk. “You think you have enough time to do a proper developmental?”
“I don’t know,” said Nate. “Grace Gao all of a sudden got friendly, invited me to a guided tour of the hotel. Could be she’s lonely, could be she’s horny, though that doesn’t seem right, and could be that undefinable something: life weariness, she’s tired of the heavy hand of Beijing and the greasy breath of all the Asian millionaires looking for a pretty little concubine. Maybe she just wants to play on the American team, establish a little life insurance.”
“You have to be discreet,” said Burns. “We’re on their home turf; there are a lot of eyes out there. You determine what’s best, but I’d say move the contact out of the hotel as soon as is natural, go to restaurants, go on a picnic, take the ferry to Lantau Island and go kiss the big Buddha on the hill. Maybe she’ll start talking about her faith.”
“Bunty Boothby says she’s a level-three yogini. It’s the only other thing in her life besides the hotel.”
Burns scratched his head. “What the hell’s a level-three yogini?”
“I guess it’s like a black belt in yoga. She’s apparently very good, been studying it for years, with a body to show for it. If it’s important to her, I can get her to share her yoga life with me; it’ll be a strong assessment tool.”
Burns looked sideways at him. “Yeah, you just be careful with that assessment tool of yours. We’re looking for a solid recruitment that’ll last. I don’t want you turning over a lovesick agent pining for Captain Picard when you leave Hong Kong.”
Nate blinked twice. “Who’s Captain Picard?” said Nate.
“The bald guy on Star Trek, with a head like a dick,” said Burns.
“You watch Star Trek?” said Nate.
Burns shook his head. “My kids. Twenty hours a day. Drives me nuts, but the guy’s head does look like the tip of a—”
“Bunty calls it a ‘bell-end.’?”
“Exactly,” said Burns.
“Okay, Chief,” said Nate. “I’ll go in slow and careful. Besides, the Aussies think Grace may be a little out there, emotionally. I’m strictly playing it as a big brother, trying to identify what she needs out of life.”
“Well, play it smart,” said Burns. “Keep your eyes out for any swerves and watch your ass. If this clicks, she could be useful. My very first chief liked to say that every Station needs three kinds of support assets: someone who works in the best hotel in town who can sneak you room keys for agent meetings, and tell you when big shots are in town; a telephone lineman who can shinny up a pole and put a tap on a phone line; and a reliable recruited cabbie who can drive you around, do surveillance, deliver a package.”
“Chief, do they still have telephone linemen? I heard it was all digital these days,” said Nate, deadpan. He saw that Burns was suppressing a smile.
“I’ve got enough comedy talking to Headquarters,” he said. “Bring me the master key to the Peninsula Hotel.”
* * *
* * *
Nate was content to stay on in Hong Kong for a while to work the developmental of Grace Gao, especially if it meant avoiding the enveloping tar pit of Langley. He frequently wondered how Benford’s mole hunt in Washington was progressing, especially since DIVA’s life hung in the balance, and part of him wanted to return to Langley to help in that effort. He would know soon enough if Grace was recruitable; he would see the signs of that metaphysical harmony between two people who think alike, have the same needs, and trust each other. The classic recruitment is when the case officer knows ahead of time that the agent’s answer will be “What took you so long?” when the officer delivers the pitch. The case officer looks for the sweet spot when two people are in sync, when a look between them is all that’s required to communicate volumes.