Red Sparrow (25 page)

“One last thing,” said Jaana, pouring another glass of schnapps. “If you would forgive me, she looks like a nice person, a sweet girl. She needs a friend.” Marcus looked at her and back to Nate with arched eyebrows.

Nate reviewed ARCHIE and VERONICA’s reports with Gable. “Good, keep an eye on her, especially if she’s got anybody from her embassy supporting
her,” said Gable. “If we see she’s got backup, then it’s possible she’s operational, maybe even she’s working on you.”

“Not in a million years,” said Nate. “No way.”

“Glad you’re so sure. Anyway, go after her, hard. Take your time, in a hurry.”

Nate set a goal of seeing Dominika at least once a week outside of the swimming. He scoured the city for places to meet without being seen. They met after work at basement bars, for coffee on Saturday mornings, lunches on Sundays at remote cafés. Put her in the chair with her back to the room. There were embassy Russians all over Helsinki, and Nate wanted to avoid a chance sighting. Build a friendship, stay clandestine, always arrive separately, leave apart. Stay off the phones, vary patterns, build a relationship. A waste of time.

Dominika applied her own tradecraft. She checked for coverage as she walked through the city to their meetings. Finns would stare at the beautiful dark-haired girl walking up the escalator, or slipping into a snowy alley, or leaving a store by a back entrance, unaware she was looking for coverage, or that she was watching from across the street as Nate arrived at their coffee shop, counting heads, looking at faces, marking hats and overcoats.

They were getting to know each other. Over the last few meetings they had talked, really talked, a natural evolution after spending time together. Dominika assessed Nate as honest, natural, intelligent. He was not
nekulturny.
He was, well, just American. His comments about living in Moscow were evasive, of course they would be, he was hiding the fact that he had been handling a Russian mole. Dominika didn’t much care for his comments about Russia, even though she knew she felt mostly the same way.
Come on, get going,
she told herself. She had to spend more time with him, continue concentrating on his patterns. She had to determine when he was operational.

She felt the pressure. If there was no breakthrough soon, with the Center and Volontov bearing down, would she contemplate a physical approach?
Nelzya!
she thought. No, never. He was attractive, his openness and humor appealing. But forget it.

How many meetings had there been? Nate felt the anticipation of seeing Dominika again, but he wasn’t convinced that he could persuade her of anything. She was unbending. Facing a hundred surveillance cars in Moscow
didn’t faze him, but he fretted over how to determine what motivated her. If she had an operational agenda, Nate couldn’t identify it. It almost seemed as if she were in Helsinki just to get experience, and that didn’t make sense. The SVR connection was important, the aspect that made her a worthwhile recruitment target. He had to get a handle soon or Forsyth would grow impatient and Gable would kick his ass.

One thing. He could look at her face for hours.
Jesus, listen to you. Concentrate on the developmental, on the assessment, what makes her tick.
They talked more easily now, even though they disagreed. She got hot and fussy whenever he pinged on Russia, he could see that, but he also had a sense that she grudgingly agreed with him at times. She didn’t believe all the propaganda. Maybe an opening. Maybe not.

He looked into the mirror and combed his hair. This Sunday he had suggested lunch at a little ethnic restaurant in Pihlajisto, a crossroads community on the Metro line northeast of the city. Dominika had agreed to meet him there. Weeks before, ARCHIE had suggested it as out-of-the-way: “We will not encounter any Russian friends there,” he said. “One of us on the train watching her, the other covering you.” Nate threw on an oiled field coat over a V-neck sweater and corduroy pants. He wore ripple-soled walking shoes. He left his apartment and walked a stairstep route through the swept streets of Kruununhaka, then along the frozen waterfront, then kicked off his real dry-cleaning route.

Across town, Dominika was also looking in the mirror, her blue eyes wide. She did not use perfume, but combed her hair for the tenth time with the tortoiseshell talisman. She got ready to walk out of her apartment to take the Metro, taking a slantwise look through the curtains of her front window to the street below. She looked forward to this, talking to him, sparring, learning a little more each time.

She wore a turtleneck sweater and tweed jacket over woolen pants for warmth. She also wore sensible shoes. She tied a scarf over her head like an old babushka and left her apartment, locking the door. She went down to the basement of her apartment building, walked through the storeroom, and pushed through to the boiler room. A small corridor led from the room to a heavy iron-barred window high on the wall that Dominika had discovered several weeks ago. It looked as though it had been a coal chute, long since converted. It had taken her almost an hour to pick the padlocked grille
two nights ago; the damn things weren’t easy, especially since she had only an improvised torsion wrench fashioned from a hairpin. Dominika stacked boxes under the window, boosted herself up, and wormed through the window.
Some start to a date,
she thought, thinking about seeing him again.

Dominika eased the window shut and stepped out into the alleyway, looking up at the curtained windows. Nothing. She walked quietly up the alleyway, squeezed between a parked truck and a Dumpster, boosted herself over a low brick wall and out onto a city street. She was already a block away from her apartment building. Her coat collar was turned up and the scarf hid her features. She walked west for another block casually, checking for repeats whenever she crossed the street and looked both ways for traffic. She entered the Kamppi complex, walked through the mall, stopped at a bookstore, checked for faces, then down into the Metro entrance. She stayed still on the slowly descending escalator, using the reflective bounce on the fashion posters on the walls. No silhouettes. Dominika was halfway to the platform level as a slight elderly lady dressed in a raincoat and floppy hat stepped on the escalator at the top and started down behind her. She was holding a bunch of flowers wrapped in green paper and a string bag with two apples. VERONICA hoped that one day she could speak to the dear girl about how predictable she had been, using the mall and its integral Metro station so close to her apartment.

Nate’s surveillance instructor a hundred dim years ago was named Jay, a former physicist who wore a Van Dyck beard and long sandy hair and looked, well, a lot like Van Dyck. “
Get it out of your heads, stop being heroes,
” he had said. “
If you detect surveillance, your night is over, you will abort
.” He had drawn a horizontal line on the chalkboard. “
Your SDR is to compel surveillance you have not seen to show themselves. It is not designed to lose anyone. All surveillance has a breaking point,
” he had said, intersecting the line with a vertical stroke. “
This is the point when the bad guys must choose between staying undetected and losing the eye
.” He brushed his hands of chalk dust. “
If you can force them to show themselves without breaking their hearts, you have succeeded. For that night only. Then you have to start all over again.
”

Fuck breaking their hearts,
thought Nate. If he had coverage they’d have to show. He slid down an embankment near the rail yard behind the central station, climbed a chain-link fence in an alley, and dodged traffic as he
crossed the E12. He wondered what she would be wearing. Along his route, Nate would look for ARCHIE, but he was wasting his time. The old man was a ghost on the street, protoplasm, smoke around dry ice. ARCHIE was countersurveilling Nate, looking for repeats using time and distance. Forget coats, forget hats, ARCHIE was looking at the way people walked, their gaits, the sets of their shoulders, the shapes of their ears and noses. Things surveillants cannot change. And shoes. They never change shoes.

Three hours after climbing through half of Helsinki, and seeing ARCHIE—finally—with the duffel in his right hand (you’re clean), Nate was confident he was black. The modest country restaurant was owned by an Afghan family. Nate entered the small whitewashed dining room decorated with rugs on the wall and colored cushions on the chairs. Each table had a candle. A dial radio on a shelf played softly. The place was deserted, only one other couple—young Finns—at a corner table. A wonderful smell of warm spices and stewed lamb came from the kitchen. Nate was seated at a corner table facing the front window. In two minutes ARCHIE and VERONICA walked arm in arm by the window, looking straight ahead. VERONICA flicked the side of her nose with a finger. All-clear signal. ARCHIE thought it idiotic but she was implacable. He looked at her and rolled his eyes, then they disappeared.

A minute later, Dominika pushed through the door, saw Nate, and walked to the table. Cool, confident, composed. He held her chair but she shrugged her coat off by herself when he made to help her. Two glasses of wine came. Nate’s bad knee was throbbing from when he had rapped it on a fence post an hour ago. His left hand was scraped after a controlled slide down the rail embankment. Dominika’s jacket sleeve had a rip at the shoulder from when she had caught it on a corner of the Dumpster behind her house. A woolen sock and shoe were wet. She had gone ankle-deep in a slushy puddle crossing the street after getting off the train at Pihlajisto.

“I’m glad you were able to find the place,” said Nate. “It’s a little out-of-the-way, but a friend said the food was excellent.” He looked at the light on her hair. “I hope it wasn’t too far to come.”

“It was an easy trip, there was hardly anyone on the train,” said Dominika.

If you only knew,
thought Nate. “I hope you like the restaurant. Have you tried Afghan food?”

“No, but there are several Afghan restaurants in Moscow. They are
supposed to be good.” His halo was rich and full, and Dominika thought of her father.

“Because, you know, I worried about inviting you to an Afghan place, I worried you would think I was being provocative,” said Nate, smiling. He wanted to turn the corner, get her to relax.

“I do not think you are provocative. You are an American, you cannot help yourself. I am beginning to understand you, perhaps a little.” She dipped a piece of hot flatbread into a little bowl of chickpea paste drizzled with oil.

“As long as you can forgive me for being an American . . .” Nate said.

“I forgive you,” said Dominika, looking straight at him. Mona Lisa smile and another bite of bread.

“Then I’m happy,” said Nate, leaning on his elbows, watching her. “What about you, are you happy?”

“What an odd question,” said Dominika.

“No, not right now, I mean are you happy generally, with your life?” said Nate.

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s just that sometimes you seem so serious . . . sad, even. I know your father died several years ago, I know you were close.” Dominika had mentioned her father to Nate.

Dominika swallowed; she didn’t want to talk about this, about herself. “My father was a wonderful man, a university professor, kind and generous.”

“What did he think about the changes in Russia? Was he glad to see the Soviet Union disappear?”

“Yes, of course, as we all did, I mean welcome the changes. He was a Russian patriot.” She took another sip of wine, wiggled her wet toes in her shoe. “But what about you, Neyt?” She wasn’t going to let him hijack the conversation. “What about your father? You told me you are from a big family, but what is your father like? Are you close?”

Nate took a breath. They were going back and forth, trading question for question.

A week ago, Nate had confided to Gable that he felt he was going nowhere with the Russian girl. She was too tight, too guarded, he couldn’t see that he was making any dent in her armor. “Whattya expect?” said Gable. “You want to bang her right away? She’s young and nervous, a little Russian-nutso, she doesn’t have fucking supervisors as sensitive and helpful as you
got.” Nate noticed for the first time that Gable had a 1971 Laotian calendar on his office wall. “Throw her some bones, show some petticoat. Just don’t bullshit her, see if she’ll relax.”

“My father is a lawyer,” said Nate. “He is very successful, owns his own practice. He is influential in the law and politics. He is close to my two older brothers, both work with my father. The law firm has been in my family for four generations.”

Close to his older brothers, she thought. Dominika went straight at the question. “And why did you not go into the law with your father? You could be a rich man. Don’t all Americans want to be rich?”

“Where did you get that impression? I don’t know, I suppose I always wanted to go on my own, to be independent. Diplomacy appealed to me, and I like to travel. So I thought I would try something else first.”

“But your father, was he disappointed that you did not follow your brothers?” Dominika asked.