“CIA was not above mounting a rescue operation at the Black Sea compound. I would hate for them to try the same thing in Moscow. It would not be impossible. Prison guards are paid little, and many are corrupt.”
Putin looked at Dominika’s figure under the sheer black slip, faint blue veins traversing her cleavage. The savory artichoke hearts sizzling out of the oven smelled delectable. “We can discuss the matter at the meeting tomorrow morning. I want to talk to the three of you. At eight o’clock. To discuss all the security variables,” he said.
There was a reason he had lingered in her apartment, sipping champagne and watching the swell of her buttocks as she moved around the kitchen. Putin knew facts the others did not know, and he intended to make tomorrow’s meeting unpleasant, because things needed shaking up, perhaps including some purges and firings. He’d done it before to his Council, and it was time again. The shaking up—in General Egorova’s case at least—could start tonight. He reached and grabbed her hair, pulling her close to him, looking at her eyes. Dominika kept her unblinking gaze steady, and let him wrap his fingers in her hair, imagining delivering a single ballistic slap—a Systema strike—against his jaw. Was he going to push her head into his lap? He held her wrists behind her back with one hand and pulled her closer, so their lips touched. He popped an appetizer into his mouth and smiled.
Dominika felt the rage well up inside her gut, yet she resisted the elemental urge to push away from this neznatnyy, this jack-in-the-office commoner with imperial airs. If he wanted her mouth in his lap, she’d use her teeth and spit his severed manhood into his face as he chewed hors d’oeuvres. Wait. This is five minutes of humiliation. In the end you’ll bring him down.
* * *
* * *
But the next morning in the conference room with a furious Putin, the situation changed. Dominika’s love talk—she had cooed kroshka, baby, poppet, sugar, to him last night—was a distant memory, her sore crotch forgotten. He was once again the blue-eyed caliph, playing it heavy and serious.
“MAGNIT is blown, a valuable asset prepared over a dozen years compromised,” yelled Putin. “And none of you had the wit to manage the case to prevent her arrest.” He slammed his hand hard on the table theatrically.
Patrushev of the oily yellow halo sat back in his chair. Dominika waited for the inevitable prevarication. Nikolai looked back and forth between the president and his colleagues. “Mr. President, Anton Gorelikov’s treason and defection could not have been foretold. MAGNIT was his case, and he did not share operational details. He had not even briefed Egorova yet. Once Anton revealed all to his CIA paymasters, no operation of ours could remain secure. We must complete a full damage assessment regarding the extent of his knowledge. He was aware of a great deal.” Dominika’s scalp twitched; Patrushev obliquely was criticizing Putin himself for trusting Anton so much.
Putin stared at the three of them. “My brilliant tsaredvoreti, my loyal courtiers,” he said, thick with irony. “Gorelikov did not defect. He was kidnapped,” he said, matter-of-factly.
The conference room was quiet, as the three of them stayed still, wondering if Putin’s penchant for reading minds and foreseeing the future was just now psychotically manifesting itself. Dominika held her breath and wondered how he knew. Did that mean he also suspected her? Finally, Bortnikov spoke. “Kidnapped by whom? Mr. President, with all due respect, it’s an outlandish theory.”
“Kidnapped, taken hostage, assassinated, it makes no difference,” said Putin, angrily. “We have been the target of a massively diabolical operation by CIA, a deception unparalleled since the height of the Cold War.” The tsar was schooling his professionals.
Bortnikov’s FSB was responsible for internal security. How did the president know this? This was FSB turf, his territory. His halo pulsed in agitation. “What deception?” he said.
Putin snorted in derision at his useful fools. “CIA removed Gorelikov—shot, poisoned, threw him to the sharks, it does not matter—so we would conclude the inevitable.”
“This is an impossibility,” said Bortnikov. “You know how operations are conceived and implemented. You know the Main Enemy. How can you possibly believe—”
Putin held up his hand. “CIA removed Gorelikov to make us believe he is CHALICE, and that he defected. MAGNIT’s arrest came immediately afterward, a well-timed coincidence, no? But I am telling you this categorically: Gorelikov cannot be the mole. CHALICE is still among us.”
Without knowing why, Patrushev was nodding in agreement like a felt-headed dipping-bird toy sold in kiosks in Gorky Park. “On what do you base this theory?” asked Bortnikov, struggling to retain a modicum of deference. Dominika could see he was furious with Patrushev, a natural podkhalim, a real lickspittle.
“A single fact,” said Putin. “Gorelikov conceived of, planned, and managed the Kataklizm operation to eliminate Alex Larson.”
Silence. All of them looked at Putin in shock. They knew everything that went on in the Russian Federation, but none of them had heard of this before. Eliminate Larson? My God. Dominika knew she had just heard the most explosive secret intelligence of the decade: Kremlin complicity in the allegedly accidental death of the American DCIA.
“Gorelikov planned the death of Larson?” she whispered. “Do the Americans know? There will be bedstviye, calamity over this.” When I tell them.
Putin did not care; he smirked at their discomfort, and his halo shone. Was he not the tsar? Did he not rule Novorossiya? “No asset under the control of CIA would undertake the assassination of its own Director without warning Langley and disrupting the plot,” he said. “Other services might martyr their own, but never the Americans. The Chinese perhaps, the North Koreans certainly, and Stalin without a second thought. But not the Yankees.”
“So the real CHALICE is active?” said Patrushev, not dwelling on the enormity of Kataklizm or statal murder. He seemed eager to please the president, eager to agree.
Putin nodded. “It is clever. We all assume Gorelikov is CHALICE; therefore, the real CHALICE is safe. You all know the Game. We’ve run such deceptions ourselves. Alex Larson’s death proves Gorelikov could not be an American asset. His success in Kataklizm exonerates him.”
“And CHALICE?” muttered Patrushev.
Putin’s face changed from smirking narrator to phlegmatic prosecutor. “The three of you must ask each other that question,” said Putin, staring at them.
“Mr. President, what are you saying?” said Bortnikov, sitting stock-still.
That he suspects one of us, thought Dominika. It’s a wonder he didn’t pass out pistols loaded with blanks to see who would shoot whom. All right, what would Bratok do? What would he tell you? If you don’t keep calm, if you don’t share the outrage, they’ll suspect you. Like a sleepwalker heading toward the edge of a cliff, Dominika heard herself speak. “The American officer Nash is the key. He certainly knows important details, doubtless even the true identity of CHALICE. It is time for enhanced interrogation to begin.” Idiotka, you better pray you haven’t signed his death sentence.
Putin nodded with satisfaction. “Let it be so, and no more talk of comfortable safe houses or spy swaps,” he said, pointing his finger at Dominika. “You are in charge, but I want all three of you there. In the room. I want that name the American hides behind his teeth. I don’t care how you get it. But get it. The medical team is already at Butyrka, waiting. Go now.”
They all knew they had to out-Herod Herod to prove their innocence. With Putin, demonstrable innocence didn’t matter; he just wanted to blame someone.
* * *
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