Red Sparrow (27 page)

“Yes, Colonel, I know all these things. I am confident I will be able to discern changes in his schedule.” Dominika wasn’t sure she could; their relationship was stuck, it seemed.

Volontov pretended to look thoughtfully at Dominika. His eyes flitted from her chin to her waist and in between. “Many of the indicators we are looking for,” he said, sitting back, “are perhaps most discernible the better one knows the target.
In my experience,
” said Volontov, “the more intimate the relationship, the more intimate the conversation.”
In your experience with Moroccan tea boys,
thought Dominika. She tamped down a cold rage as she looked at the warts on Volontov’s neck.

“Very well, Colonel. I am to meet the American again next week. I will remember your guidance concerning intimacy, and I will report progress. I will propose additional meetings in the hope we can discover his work schedule. Does that meet with your approval?”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. But do not underestimate an emotional dependence. Do you understand?” Orange haze swirling around his head, nerves, fear.

The words came out before she could stop them. “Why don’t you just
come out and say it?” said Dominika, coming out of her seat. “Why don’t you just order me to get on my back? I am an officer of the Service. I serve my country. I won’t let you talk to me that way.” Her body was trembling with rage and frustration. Before the scowling Volontov could react, Dominika wheeled and walked out of his office, slamming the door behind her.
If it had been any other junior officer,
Volontov thought bitterly,
I would have followed him into the outer office, stripped the hide off him with a birch branch, then shipped him home under escort to the Lubyanka basement. Let this one go for now,
he thought.
With her pedigree, it’s safer this way.

Eyes watched Dominika burst out of Volontov’s office and make her way red-faced to her desk in the corner, hard against the angle of a dormer. She sat gripping the edge of her desk, head bowed.
This is some hothead,
thought her colleagues. They had heard Dominika’s voice raised. Was she some kind of fool? Best to keep away from this
samoubiystvo,
this suicide waiting to happen, they all thought. All except one.

The conversation with Rezident Volontov festered inside Dominika for the five days before she was to meet Nate again, this time for dinner at a local restaurant. At night, in her apartment, she looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the window, the lights of Punavuori showing through the treetops.
Who are you?
she asked herself wearily.
How much will you take?
How she longed to wipe the eye of the beast, to puncture the desiccated self-importance of these users and falsifiers. To do so publicly was suicidal. No, better a secret revenge, undetectable, something delectable she could hold inside her, something
she
knew that
They
did not know.

Volontov was just the latest
nadziratel
in a procession of hoggish overseers in her life and career, but he was here and now, and she wanted to damage
him,
to extinguish the grimy orange halo around his warty face. She had to put her building rage into a box and calculate. The operation against Nate was critical to Volontov; he feared failing the Center. She could get back at him—at Them—by ruining it.
How to do it without destroying yourself?
Later that evening, she stopped with the toothbrush still in her mouth and looked at herself in the mirror.
You could give the American a surprise, drop your cover, let him know you’re SVR.

Izmena.
Treason, that was what it would be.
Gosudarstvennaya izmena
. High treason. But it would ruin Volontov’s case, put the Americans on guard, would rock Nate back on his heels. It would be interesting to see his surprise when he learned that she was an intelligence officer. He would respect her for that, he would be impressed. He would respect her.

Come on, are you insane? Have you forgotten discipline? Responsibility to the
Rodina
?
But this was not an act against Russia. She was getting back at Them, knocking over their dominoes, not selling state secrets. She would be in control, she would determine how far was far enough. No, it was madness, and trouble, and impossible. She would have to find her satisfaction elsewhere. She brushed her hair and looked at the tapered handle of the brush, imagining it seated firmly between Volontov’s buttocks. Then she turned off the light and went into her bedroom.

At the end of the week, Nate and Dominika were sitting in the ersatz Ristorante Villetta in Töölö at a corner table. The restaurant was classic Italian in Helsinki. A plastic canopy with Italian colors jutted out from the first floor of the apartment block in which it was located. Inside, the requisite red-and-white tablecloths and runny candles completed the décor. The weather was still cold, but winter would break soon, a few more feet of snow, then the short spring would give way to delicious summer, with the harbor full of sails and the ferries running. Dominika and Nate had arrived separately, as usual. Under her winter coat she wore a black belted knit dress and black wool stockings. The dress clung to her as she hung her coat over the back of her chair.

Nate wore a suit, but he had stripped off his necktie, and his shirt, in a blue pencil stripe, was open at the neck. He had left the Embassy two hours before and had driven up the E12 until Ruskeasuo, cut west, and come back south on surface streets, entering Töölö only after having seen ARCHIE parked on a side street with the left-hand visor down. All clear.

Nate had huddled with Gable the day before. “Get her talking about work,” Gable had said. “She’s an SVR officer, that’s her guilty secret.” Nate nodded. He squirmed, agonizing over the need for a breakthrough moment. Forsyth had praised him, Gable was nothing but encouragement, but Nate was getting antsy. He needed to turn a corner, and right now.

They chatted for a minute while looking at the improbable oversized menus. “You are quiet tonight,” said Dominika, looking at him over the top of the menu.
Same majestic purple. He never changes,
she thought.

“Hard day at the office,” said Nate.
Keep it nonchalant.
“I was late for a meeting, left figures out of a cable, my boss was not happy and told me so.”

“I cannot believe you are not excellent in your work.”

“Well, I feel better now,” Nate said, ordering two glasses of wine from the hovering waiter. “You look nice tonight.”

“Do you think so?” He was paying her a compliment. How confident he seemed.

“Yes, I do. You make me forget my boss and work and the lousy day.”

His boss. She wondered what he really thought. Dominika looked back down at the menu, but she had trouble focusing on the print.

“You are not alone, Nate. My superior also scolds.” She could feel her heartbeat in her ears. She took a swallow of wine, felt it light up her stomach.

“So we’re both in hot water. What did you do?”

“It’s not important,” Dominika said. “He is an unpleasant person,
nekulturny
. And ugly. He has warts.”
How many
rezidents
in Helsinki have warts?
she thought.

“What’s that,
nekulturny
?”

As if you don’t know,
thought Dominika. “He is a peasant, no culture.”

Nate laughed. “What’s his name? Have I met him on the dip circuit?”

She had changed her mind five times in the last two days, had ultimately decided to steer clear of silly games. She looked at Nate across the table. He was munching
grissini,
grinning at her. No!
Izmena!
Treason!

“His name is Volontov, Maxim,” she said, hearing her own voice through someone else’s ears.
Bozhe moi, my God,
she thought,
I’ve said it.
She looked at Nate closely. He was scanning his menu and did not look up when she said the name. The halo around his head did not change.

“Nope, I don’t think I’ve met him.” Nate felt the hairs on his arms stand up.
Holy shit. What’s she doing? She just declared herself.

“Well, you are fortunate, then,” Dominika said, still staring at him. Nate looked up from the menu. Had Dominika made a mistake and let the
rezident
’s name slip out? She looked back at him evenly. No. She had deliberately said it.

“Why is he so bad?” asked Nate.

“He is disgusting, an old Soviet bastard. Every day he stares at me; what is the expression in English?” Dominika kept looking at Nate evenly.

“He undresses you with his eyes,” said Nate.

“Yes,” said Dominika. No reaction from him. Had he missed what she just said? My God, had she gone too far? Then, suddenly, she knew she didn’t care. She had slid down the slope, and now was custodian of a mortally dangerous secret.
Are you happy now,
durak,
you little fool?

“He sounds horrible . . . but I can understand why he stares.” Nate looked at Dominika and smiled a boyish grin.
Jesus,
he thought,
this came out of the blue. Is this a signal to me? Is she being coy?
He looked at her unwavering blue eyes. Her chest rose and fell under the wool dress. Her fingertips gripped the edges of the ridiculous enormous menu.

“Now you are being
nekulturny,
” she said. Did he already know? Was he so good, to hide his reaction?

“Well, it sounds like we both have trouble at work. We can commiserate.”

“What does ‘commiserate’ mean?” asked Dominika. Blue-eyed stare.

“Crying on each other’s shoulders,” Nate said. Purple, steady and warm.

Dominika didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
Stay professional.
“Crying we can save for later. I am hungry, let’s order,” she said.

It was a Monday morning when a restricted-handling cable from Headquarters was passed to Nate, informing the Station that MARBLE had communicated via covcom that he would be arriving in Helsinki in two weeks as part of a Russian trade delegation participating in a two-day Scandinavian/Baltic economic summit. MARBLE relayed that he was using the delegation as cover for travel. He would stay under Line KR’s radar that way. He was further covered by being operational, in town to attempt to bump the senior member of the Canadian delegation, Assistant Trade Minister Anthony Trunk, who the SVR thought was a valid recruitment prospect based on the minister’s predilection for men in their early twenties.

A senior Canadian official and a
pidor,
to boot. The Americas Department had primacy, and MARBLE was the logical candidate to travel to Helsinki to sniff at Trunk’s cologne-scented personage. The trip was approved by the Center. As MARBLE knew would happen, instructions were issued
to exclude the Helsinki
rezidentura
from both the conference and the operation. MARBLE had subsequently signaled in his satellite burst transmission that he would be able to meet with CIA handlers late at night after the daily sessions and celebratory dinners concluded. Risky, but possible.