Red Sparrow (18 page)

In the Arbat, at number 12 Nikitsky Bulvar, there is a small restaurant called Jean Jacques. It is something like a French brasserie, noisy, smoky, filled with the winey aroma of cassoulets and stews. Tables covered with white tablecloths are jammed nearly edge to edge on a black-and-white tile floor, bentwood chairs tucked in tight. The walls are covered in wine bottles on shelves to the ceiling, the curving bar is lined with stools. Jean Jacques is always crowded with Muscovites. At lunchtime, if one is alone one shares a table with a stranger.

Midday on a rainy Tuesday, Jean Jacques was even more busy than usual. Customers stood inside the front door or under the canopy outside, waiting for single seats to come free. The din was overwhelming, cigarette smoke hung heavy. Waiters scurried between tables, opening bottles and carrying trays. After a fifteen-minute wait, Simon Delon of the French Embassy in Moscow was shown to a two-cover in the corner of the room. A young man sat in the other seat, finishing a deep bowl of Dijonnaise stew thick with vegetables and chunks of meat. He dipped black bread into the gravy. As Delon sat at the table, the young man barely looked up in acknowledgment.

Despite the crowds and the noise, Delon liked the restaurant, it reminded him of Paris. Better still, the Russian lunchtime practice of seating strangers together occasionally provided an opportunity to be seated beside a cute university student or an attractive shopgirl. Sometimes they even smiled at him, as if they were together. At least it would look that way from across the room.

Delon ordered a glass of wine while he looked at the menu. The young man sitting across from him paid his check, wiped his mouth, and reached for his jacket on the back of his chair. Delon looked up to see a stunning dark-haired woman with ice-blue eyes walk toward his table. He held his breath. The woman actually sat down in the seat just vacated by the young man. She wore her hair up, there was a single strand of pearls beneath her collar. Under a light raincoat she was wearing a beige satin shirt over a darker chocolate-colored skirt, with a brown alligator belt. Delon took a ragged pull of his wine as he peeked and saw how the shirt moved over the woman’s body.

She took a small pair of square reading glasses out of an alligator clutch; they perched on the end of her nose as she looked at her menu. She sensed him looking at her and she raised her eyes. He dove back behind his menu in a panic. Another peek, he took in the elegant fingers holding the menu, the curve of her neck, the eyelashes over those X-ray eyes. She looked at him again.

“
Izvinite,
excuse me, is there something wrong?” said Dominika in Russian. Delon shook himself and gulped self-consciously. He looked to be in his fifties, with strawlike brown hair combed across a big head balanced on a skinny neck perched on narrow, rounded shoulders. Small black eyes, a pointy nose, and pursed mouth topped with a little mustache completed the whiskered-mouse effect. One point of his collar slightly stuck out of his blue-black suit, and the knot of his tie was small and uneven. Dominika resisted the impulse to tuck in his collar and straighten his tie. She knew his birth date, what kind of aspirin was in the cabinet above his bathroom sink, the color of the bedspread on his lonely bed. Well, she thought, he certainly looked like a commercial attaché.

Delon could barely look her in the eye. Dominika sensed the effort he made to speak to her. When he finally did, the words were the palest of blue, not unlike the cornflower blue that had defined Anya at Sparrow School. He took a breath and Dominika waited. She already knew her assessment of him was correct, that her plans for him were beginning.

“I beg your pardon,” said Delon. “I’m sorry, I do not speak Russian. Do you speak English?”

“Yes, of course,” said Dominika in English.

“
Et français?
” asked Delon.

“
Oui,
” said Dominika.

“How wonderful. I did not mean to stare,” he stammered in French. “I was just thinking how fortunate you were to be seated. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too long,” said Dominika, looking around the restaurant and at the front door. “In any case, it looks like the crowd is less.”

“Well, I’m glad you got a seat,” said Delon, running out of things to say.

Dominika nodded and looked back down at the menu. Fortune had nothing to do with Dominika getting that particular seat in the corner of the room. Every customer that day in Jean Jacques was an SVR officer.

A second chance encounter at Jean Jacques provided the excuse to introduce herself in alias “Nadia” to the owlish little diplomat. Another bump on the sidewalk outside the brasserie days later somehow gave him nerve enough to suggest that they lunch together. After that they tried another restaurant for lunch. Delon was excruciatingly shy, with courtly good manners. He drank in moderation, spoke haltingly about himself, and furtively mopped at his glistening forehead as he watched Dominika absentmindedly brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Over the space of these contacts, Delon’s reticence began fading, while his azure aura was strengthening. It was what she was looking for.

Delon had accepted without suspicion the legend that Nadia was a language teacher at Liden & Denz in Gruzinsky Street. He studiously did not react when she spoke of an estranged husband, a geologist, working out east in another time zone, and he feigned polite disinterest when Dominika vaguely mentioned her small apartment whose only redeeming feature was that she did not share it with anyone. Privately, Delon’s thoughts raced.

Simyonov wanted to move fast, he wanted Dominika to lure the little man into bed and drop the house on him. Dominika resisted, stalled, pushed back to the limits of insubordination. She knew Simyonov intended to use her as a Sparrow, that his vision in the recruitment attempt stopped at a sex-entrapment operation, that he had no appreciation of the promise in the case. She argued forcefully for a period of careful development of Delon, doubly important because of his daughter’s potential as a stupendous source. He would need to be brought along gently. Simyonov controlled his temper as this curvy Academy graduate lectured him, reported progress, and proposed next steps.

It was a classic
razrabotka,
developmental, over the following weeks. Dominika took Delon through the stages of casual acquaintance to comfortable friendship, watching how he relaxed with her, grew cautiously more familiar, how he hid his growing longing for her. She anticipated his desires, prompted him, hinted how she was becoming fond of him. He could scarcely believe it. The Frenchman was besotted with her, but Dominika knew he was too timid, too fearful to ever push himself at her. There could
be no recruitment of him if he felt deceived or compromised, she decided. The recruitment would come based only on friendship, on Delon’s growing infatuation, on his eventual inability to refuse her anything.

They met once a week, then twice a week, then began meeting on the weekends for walks around town, visits to museums. By mutual inclination they were discreet. They both were married, after all. They talked about his family, a carefree childhood in Brittany, his parents. Dominika had to be soft. Delon was a turtle who would jerk his head back under his shell if startled.

In time, Delon spoke haltingly about a loveless marriage. His wife was several years older than he, tall and patrician, she ran things her way. Her family had money, lots of it, and they had married after a brief courtship. Delon told Dominika that his wife had resolved to make something out of him, grand ideas of position and title, abetted by her family’s influence. When his reticence and mildness revealed themselves, his wife had turned her back on the marriage. She preserved appearances, of course, but she did not mind the separation required by his diplomatic assignment. His standing in the Foreign Service depended on her.

Delon adored Cécile, their only child. A photo of her revealed a slight, dark-haired young woman with a willowy smile. She was a lot like Delon, shy and tentative and reserved. With growing familiarity and trust, he finally revealed to Dominika that his daughter worked at the Defense Ministry. He of course was immensely proud of her young career, which had been arranged by his wife and influential father-in-law. Delon spoke with good humor about his hopes for his daughter. A good marriage, a strong career, a comfortable life. That he was willing to talk about Cécile was an important milestone in the development.

Over the rim of a demitasse at a café, Dominika one afternoon asked Delon whether he worried about the future, worried that his wife would leave him, worried that his daughter would meet the wrong man and be trapped in a melancholy life like his own. Delon looked at Dominika—the object of his growing affection—and for the first time should have felt the silken touch of the SVR glove brush against his cheek. A danger signal. But he ignored the frisson, distracted by her blue eyes and tumbled hair and, he was scandalized to admit to himself, the horizontal stripes of the jersey that
traced the curve of her breasts. Still they continued their chaste friendship. Outings ended with awkward good-byes, red-faced handshakes, and, once, a hurried, perfumed kiss on the cheek that made his head swim.

“What are you waiting for?” raved Simyonov. “We’re here to trap this
robkij francuz,
this timorous Frenchie, not to write his biography.”

“This is no time to be stupid,” Dominika said to Simyonov, knowing she was committing a grave offense of discipline. “Let me run this and I will have the Frenchman
and his daughter
recruited,” she pleaded.

Simyonov seethed, the pulsing yellow fog around him paled, then strengthened, then paled again. He was dissembling, planning treachery, she was sure. She continued crowding him, with her argument but physically as well, standing right up to him. The ensnarement of Delon was nearly complete. He was ready for the hook, she was sure of it. He wanted to start spying for her, he just didn’t know it yet. She remembered a phrase from her old pensioner instructors during the ops course.

“Don’t worry, comrade,” Dominika said. “This
svekla,
this beet, is almost cooked.” She felt like a veteran repeating it.

“Look,” said Simyonov, pointing his finger at her, “forget the old bullshit jokes and wrap this target up. Stop wasting time.” But even as he scolded, he could sense the nuances Dominika was building into this operation, refinements that he knew were beyond him and were in consequence not at all to his liking.

Dominika finally invited Delon to her ostensible apartment in northern Moscow, near the Belarus train terminal and not far from the language school where she claimed to work. It was a small two-room flat with a sitting room, an attached kitchen with curtained lavatory, and a tiny bedroom. The carpet was threadbare, the wallpaper faded and bubbled with age. A battered teapot on a single-element propane stove was too old to whistle. It was small and dingy, but a Moscow apartment not shared with relatives or work colleagues was still an inexpressible luxury.

Another unappreciated—for Delon—aspect was that the walls, ceilings, and fixtures were peppered with lenses and microphones. The apartments on both sides, above, and below were likewise SVR-controlled units. The
energy draw from this apartment block alone could have air-started a Tupolev Tu-95. Sometimes, late at night, you could hear the transformers humming in the basement.

“Simon, I need your help,” Dominika said, opening the door to her apartment. A clutch of blue flowers in his hand and a bottle of wine under his arm, Delon immediately looked concerned. This was the third visit to Nadia’s apartment, and previous visits had been limited to chastely listening to tapes, drinking wine, and conversation. Dominika put a little panic into her voice and shook her head. “I accepted a temporary job as an interpreter, French to Russian, for the ITFM trade fair next month. To make a little extra money. What was I thinking? I don’t know any of the vocabulary for industry, energy, commerce—in either language, for that matter.”

Delon smiled. Dominika noted that his blue aura glowed with confidence and affection. They sat down on the little divan in the tiny living room. He knew all about the fair, it was his job. At least six SVR technicians beyond the walls watched and recorded the scene. “Is that all?” said Delon. “In a month I can teach you all the French words you’ll need.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry.” Dominika leaned toward him, took his face in her hands, and planted a big vaudeville kiss on his lips. She had calculated the time and the nature of the kiss carefully. Showy and girlish as the smooch may have been, it nevertheless was the first time Delon had felt Dominika’s lips. “Don’t worry,” he repeated shakily. He could taste her lipstick. The blue words now were uniformly colored and darker. He had decided.