Red Sparrow (51 page)

“Vanya, I’m too old and too tired to sleep with anyone these days. Besides, I wouldn’t want to follow your poxy ass in any way. I feel sorry for those young girls out there.” Korchnoi sat back in the soft sofa and unbuttoned his jacket.

“I’m pleased that you’re commencing with the planning against the American Nash,” said Egorov. “I know you will manage it well. It’s our best chance to discover the traitor.” He got up, went to an ornate cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of Georgian brandy and two glasses. He poured two shots and handed one to Korchnoi.

“This is a little early in the day, Vanya,” said Korchnoi. He reached his glass over to touch the rim of Egorov’s glass. Both men tilted back their heads and returned the glasses to the table. “No more for me,” said Korchnoi as Egorov made to refill their glasses.

“I insist,” said Egorov with mock seriousness. “It’s the only way I can get you to stay and talk with me. I need someone I trust to talk to.”

“We’ve been friends since the Academy,” said Korchnoi. “Is it something about our operation? You’re not having second thoughts about your niece. Because if that’s it, I can tell you I feel absolutely—”

“No, it’s nothing to do with the operation. I have high hopes for it. There’s something else,” said Vanya. “I have something to get off my chest.”

“Are you having troubles, Vanya?” asked Korchnoi. He would not go so
far as to ask how Egorov’s campaign to supplant the sitting Director was going. Not even their decades-long relationship would give him the license to be so direct.

“The usual headaches and skirmishes. For each success we balance a failure, the loss of a source, a defection, a recruitment.”

“Vanya, you know how our business works. We will always have failures, but once every five years, ten, we will have a stupendous success. We are due another. It will come.” Korchnoi sipped at the second glass of brandy.

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about,” said Egorov. “Volodya, I owe you an apology. I have kept something from you when I should not have. I must continue to keep something from you for a little longer, but I want to tell you a little bit.”

“I respect your judgment, Vanya,” said Korchnoi.

“You are a true friend, Volodya,” said Egorov, pouring another shot of brandy for them both. “I have been running an operation on your turf, in the United States, without your knowledge or consent. By rights, your department should have been managing the case. All I can tell you is that the Kremlin ordered that it be managed in this way.”

MARBLE kept his face relaxed. This was it, the Director’s Case, SWAN.

“It’s not the first time we’ve done this. I have done it myself. If it’s operationally expedient, then you have to do it,” said Korchnoi, registering the lie.

“I knew you would consider it professionally. I meant no disrespect to you or your department,” said Egorov.

“None taken,” said Korchnoi. “Is Golov in Washington aware of the case?” There was a narrow window for a delicate probe.
Softly,
he thought.

“These are details we need not examine,” said Egorov, evading the question. “I can tell you that the case is beginning to produce intelligence of a sensitivity and relevance to Russia not seen since 1949 when Feklisov was buying Fuchs ice cream in exchange for his notes on a working bomb.”
How apt,
thought Korchnoi.
We peaked as the NKVD in the 1950s.
Egorov laughed and slapped Korchnoi on the back.

“Congratulations are in order, then,” said Korchnoi. “These are the twenty-year triumphs we need.” He took a sip of his brandy. “Vanya, how can I help?”

“No, no, there’s nothing for you to do,” said Egorov. “I need you to
proceed against the American, even as we have to pause in the sensitive case we are running. When can you move ahead?”

“As soon as is required. Your niece is ready,” said Korchnoi easily. “How quickly do we need to move?”

“We have a little time. If you can move now, while our source is recovering from serious eye surgery, the timing will be suitable.”

“Not a problem, we will be ready to travel within a few days’ time.”

“Excellent,” said Egorov.

“We’ll have success,” said Korchnoi. “You can depend on it.”

“I am depending on you,” said Egorov, “my most trusted
uchastnik,
my old partner.”
You old crocodile,
thought Korchnoi. He got up from the couch and looked out the enormous picture window at the pine forest below. “We’ve done well, Vanya, especially you. Who would have thought those two young Academy graduates would have such careers?”

“Don’t get too maudlin on me yet; we have a lot of work left to do,” said Egorov. “Thank you, my friend, for being so loyal, and don’t be a stranger for so long next time.” They walked arm in arm to the hallway door and bear-hugged briefly.

“Now I return to my office smelling of brandy and your dreadful cologne,” said Korchnoi. “I build my reputation as a drunk
and
a
pedik,
thanks to you.” They both laughed and Egorov watched Korchnoi walk down the hallway, thinking,
He was brilliant and fearless once, but now he’s getting tired.
He turned back into his office and closed the door.

MARBLE’s thoughts raced. He would pass the information immediately, a satellite-burst transmission tonight. He imagined Benford reading the note. But there was a whiff of something else. Vanya’s invitation to the fourth floor was incongruous, out of character. The apology for running an operation in his territory was so much window dressing. Vanya did not have the slightest qualms about trespassing into an area of operational responsibility. Vanya did only those things that would bring maximum credit and benefit to Vanya. He had always been like that, it was what had decided him to become a bureaucrat and leave true intelligence work to others.

He reviewed the four important details Vanya had provided. The mega-
source—SWAN—was a “twenty-year case,” providing the best information since the atom spies. The case was being run out of the Washington
rezidentura.
Anatoly Golov was likely involved. SWAN recently had eye surgery.
More clues for Benford,
thought MARBLE.

MARBLE walked down the broad ground-floor corridors and turned into the spacious cafeteria. It was barely eleven thirty, but employees were already bringing food trays to tables to eat their lunches. His head light and stomach churning from Vanya’s damn brandy, MARBLE stopped at a counter and ordered a bowl of
grybnoy sup,
thick mushroom soup swirling with sour cream. He saw the Line T chief, Nasarenko, sitting at a table alone and desperately tried to slide away from his line of sight, but Nasarenko saw him and bobbed his head in his direction. Now he would have to go over and sit with him, for as a fellow office chief not to do so would be a breach of protocol. Korchnoi steeled himself to endure twenty minutes of eating soup with the man nicknamed “the Oscilloscope” by the junior scientists in the technical department.

“Yury, how goes it?” said Korchnoi, sitting down at the table. He broke the heel off his bread and dunked it into the steaming soup.

“Too busy, too busy,” said Nasarenko. He was sawing at a cabbage roll with disastrous results. Korchnoi could not take his eyes away, like looking at a bad traffic accident. “They have us working overtime. New data coming all the time, translation, analysis, drafting summaries for the fourth floor. An avalanche of discs. They’re sending everything to the Kremlin.”

Interesting. Discs. It must be the same case, with high-volume production. “Do you need some help? Could I send an analyst or two?” This was an unprecedented act of largesse. No department willingly offered such help. Nasarenko’s head shot up, impressed and surprised.

“Vladimir Andreiyevich, that is very kind of you. I appreciate the offer,” said Nasarenko, chewing half a cabbage roll. “But the work must be confined to a small number of cleared analysts. It is a requirement.”

“Well, let me know if I can help you in any appropriate way. I know how it feels to be swamped with work,” said Korchnoi.

“We should have a respite soon. Egorov told me there would be a temporary suspension of information.” Nasarenko leaned over his plate toward Korchnoi, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he puffed his cheeks out. “The source has had a bout of shingles, he’s incapacitated.” Nasarenko was committing a
serious breach of security, but Korchnoi was a fellow department chief, after all, a clandestine operator with a well-respected record.

MARBLE felt an icy finger trace his spine. The cafeteria walls closed in on him, the voices in the room became a dull roar. He made himself take a spoonful of the soup. “Well, that’s certainly good news for you. We take all the breaks we can.” Korchnoi lowered his voice. “Yury, we probably shouldn’t be speaking of these matters. You know about the sensitivity of this activity better than I. Let’s not mention this conversation to anybody, don’t you agree?”

Nasarenko’s dark-brown eyes flickered guiltily when he realized what the general was hinting at. “I agree completely,” he said. He gathered his plate and stood, murmuring apologies for leaving so suddenly. MARBLE sat alone, forcing himself to spoon more soup, trying to appear natural and at ease.

Was this the beginning of the end for him, was this a snare, did they suspect him specifically? Or was this a general test for loyalty? He wryly shook his head at Vanya’s canary trap, variants fed to God knows how many senior managers, with his little silver spoon.
Here, little
kolibri,
little hummingbird, how do you spread your pollen?
His message to Langley suddenly became more critical than ever.

GRYBNOY SUP—MUSHROOM SOUP

Soak dried mushrooms and strain. Add soaking liquid to beef stock and boil mushrooms for four hours. Sauté finely diced onions in butter until golden and add to soup. Whisk in cornstarch, stir, and simmer until thickened. Season and serve with a dollop of sour cream and parsley.

   
29   

Benford sat in
semidarkness in his office, the covcom message alert cable on the small square of visible desk amid the landfill chaos of the rest of it. He had read MARBLE’s cryptic message twice, hearing his voice as he read the words, seeing him conserving the limited characters allowable in a burst transmission. He bellowed to his secretary to fetch Nate and Alice immediately. While he waited, he read the message again:

One: SWAN definitely in US. V says SWAN material best since 50s. Poss he working out of capital city. Golov likely handler. Nasarenko claims work overload, discs and technical data.

Two: V running canary trap. Nasarenko told big source suffering shingles. I told he recovering eye surgery. Other variants likely.

Three: V renewing op vs NN. I assigned to direct (!) V niece in my dept, targeted against NN.

Four: Anticipate travel Rome coincide with EBES conference. Will advise when out. niko.

Benford’s eyes lingered on the lowercase
n
in the niko signature, which in simple terms was the “no duress” indicator, but which more specifically meant that MARBLE had not composed the message with a circle of men standing around him, one of whom was prying the little finger of his left hand straight up, close to the breaking point, as he wrote what they wanted.

SWAN was a mole in the US government. Game on. That this was considered by the Russians the best case in years suggested SWAN’s intelligence
had quality as well as quantity; it meant to Benford that the United States was hemorrhaging information. When Alice stuck her head in the door, Benford told her he was assigning her a single project, starting right now.

“I have the double agent thing in Brazil,” said Alice bluntly. She was not afraid of contradicting Benford.

“That bullshit can wait,” said Benford without looking up from his desk. “I want you to drop everything and compile a list. It’ll be unlike anything you have ever done before.”

“Do tell,” said Alice, vaguely looking for a place to sit. She found none and remained standing in front of Benford’s desk.

“It’s going to be a little unconventional, but that’s right up your alley, Alice,” said Benford. He looked up. “I want you to draw up a Top Ten list for me. I want you to identify the ten biggest secrets in the United States government. It could be military, political, domestic, cyber, banking, space, energy, Islam, or the tattoo on Pat Benatar’s ass, I don’t care—”

“On whose ass?” asked Alice.

“Pat Benatar, the pop singer,” said Benford defensively. “Start with the Pentagon and their hottest SAPs, military secrets, that’s what excites the Russians the most. Find out what DoD considers their ultrasensitive projects. Long-term. Expensive. Strategic. Get the deputy director for military affairs to make a call to SecDef if necessary. Politely ask them to get off their asses and hurry up. Then when we see what they consider the crown jewels, we can begin reviewing the BIGOT lists.” Alice moved to the door just as Nate entered. As they squeezed past each other, Alice turned to him.