Dominika’s return from China—rumors of her secret commission to Beijing had the siloviki (except Gorelikov and FSB Chief Bortnikov) frantic with envy and trepidation—coincided with the announcement of her promotion to one-star general and to the post of Director of the SVR. Chubby, jowly faces clustered around her after the Security Council meeting to congratulate her, enveloping her in an impossibly cloying miasma of competing colognes underlaid with the earthy fear-sweat of officials who had millions squirreled away in overseas accounts. It, therefore, was important to establish good relations with this shlyukha, this former trollop, who now had the organizational means and authorities to investigate foreign bank accounts whenever Vladimir Vladimirovich ordered it. Beefsteak hands with manicured nails and pinky rings pumped her hand and yellow halos quivered above their yellow smiles, interspersed by the rare blue crowns of the few pragmatic thinkers on the Council, the occasional gazelles who roamed among the muddy-flanked buffaloes. The thinkers had a low survival rate in the jungles of the Kremlin.
The official promotion ceremony took place the following week in the gilded Andreyevsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace, in front of the forty-foot curved gold filigreed doors, above which the black double-headed eagle of the Russian Federation stood guard, wings outspread, the orb and scepter in its talons. The relics represented God’s dominion over the Earth, and the monarch’s benevolent and just rule over his people. Dominika contemplated the towering irony of benevolence and justice in modern Russia as the president approached her to pin the Order for Merit to the Fatherland, First Class, on the lapel of her forest-green tunic, the military uniform the service chiefs wore to ceremonial events to reflect their flag ranks. Dominika hated the baggy cut of the double-breasted jacket, the stiff epaulets, and the straight-line green skirt, more suitable for a librarian or a wedding magistrate’s clerk. The clunky black service shoes, she couldn’t even look at.
“Pozdravlyayu, General,” said Putin, looking into her eyes. Felicitations. His fingers lingered while pinning the medal on her lapel, solicitously smoothing the hanging claret ribbon, brushing with knowing fingers the start of the swell of her left breast. Dominika idly wondered if there was an ornate general’s belt buckle to be awarded next, that would present additional opportunity for the president to smooth the folds of her uniform skirt.
“Thank you, Mr. President, I will continue to serve the Rodina with all my energies,” said Dominika, standing at what she imagined was a semblance of attention. Putin’s azure halo pulsed once, and he gave her an olive oil smile that unambiguously transmitted, no, serve me with all your energies, stuff the Rodina, as he shook her hand and stepped sideways to the other medal recipient, a twenty-seven-year-old champion rhythmic gymnast, who was retiring from the sport and had been named as a district organizer for Yedinaya Rossiya, the United Russia Party—the government’s party that controlled 75 percent of Parliamentary seats. Dominika wondered how she had qualified for that position. The president turned back to Dominika after laboriously pinning a sports medal on the blushing gymnast.
“I look forward to hosting you at the reception at the cape in several days,” said Putin, leering. Dominika wondered if her dacha was wired for sound and video, and if the president had a key to the front door. Stupid questions.
“I will be there, Mr. President. Thank you for the invitation. And I must thank you again for use of the dacha. It’s quite beautiful.”
Putin nodded. “The view of the sea from that particular dacha is second only to the view from the master apartment in the main house,” he said as if he were selling shares in a Ponzi scheme.
Dominika smiled. “I have no doubt of that,” she said, noncommittally. She was not going to stick out her chest, wet her lips, and tell him she couldn’t wait to compare the two views. How to keep a suspicious, covetous, and randy despot’s hands off you for two or three days without incurring his wrath, or worse, embarrassing him regarding performance issues? There were bawdy rumors on the streets of Moscow that Dimitri Medvedev, Putin’s diminutive prime minister, a protégé who had switched leadership positions with Putin as a way to satisfy term limits laws, was better endowed and, well, more feral than his supposedly ubervirile patron. Medvedev’s nickname from those years was Nano President, but the mere thought that Putin was not the rampant alpha wolf among the whole pack could not be remotely contemplated. “Until then,” said the president before moving off. She felt footsteps coming up behind her.
“Congratulations, Director,” said a smiling, jubilant Gorelikov with a flourish. “You’ve earned this honor, and we will accomplish great things in the coming months.” Great things, to be sure, thought Dominika. Disrupting democracies, suborning innocents, enabling cloven-footed surrogates, maybe start the next world war. But Anton was reveling in the possibilities now that his ingénue, his creation, had landed the big job. “With the announcement of your new position, I took the liberty of transferring your belongings to your new penthouse on Kutuzovsky Prospekt. You’ll find it elegant and quite comfortable.” How kind and thoughtful. The courteous favor was an opportunity for Gorelikov’s team to rummage through her belongings. Bozhe, thank God I buried my broken SRAC equipment before I left. “The penthouse belonged to Andropov before he became First Secretary,” beamed Anton. Charming. I hope they’ve taken out the hospital bed and oxygen tanks since then. “Your daily schedule will naturally be taken up with more representational duties, starting tomorrow evening with a formal diplomatic reception in the Georgievsky Hall here in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Besides the embassies, there will be various delegations.” Dominika’s irrational first thought was that she had no dress for a formal reception. Gorelikov was a warlock, reading her mind.
“Dominika, I also took the quite outrageous liberty of putting a selection of evening dresses in your closet,” said Anton like a valet, “but I must apologize in advance for my utter lack of style. I hope at least one of them will suit.” The elegant Gorelikov, dressed today in an exquisite gray flannel suit of British cut, a white spread-collar shirt, and a black knit tie, would have chosen, Dominika had no doubt, elegant, expensive frocks in her exact size. Welcome to the club, thought Dominika. Now they’re dressing you like a doll.
“I’m sure they will be quite lovely, thank you,” said Dominika, her mind drifting. She knew Benford would hear about her long-anticipated promotion within a day: TASS and Pravda would carry the announcement, doubtless highlighting the fact that General Dominika Egorova was one of the highest-ranked women in the government. Modern Russia making great strides, thought Dominika, despite the unavoidable fact that the entire country was nothing more than a big petrol station with nuclear weapons and heaps of murdered dissidents.
The crowd made no move to disperse—no one arrived at a State function after the president and likewise no one departed before him—so Dominika continued speaking with Gorelikov, and they were soon joined by a mild and complimentary Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB, in a gorgeous powder-blue uniform with gold braid at lapels and cuffs. Bortnikov was a lieutenant general with three stars, after all. He shook hands with Dominika as he congratulated her, and his politely firm grip was dry and warm, his steady blue halo—matched by the equally steady aura above Gorelikov’s head and shoulders—hinted at reserve and good sense. Perhaps she could eventually count these two as true allies in this Kremlin maze. Then she remembered that this beneficent and reasonable grandfather had planned and authorized Litvinenko’s assassination in London. No one, but no one, was an ally.