Red Sparrow (53 page)

“Senators, the CIA, along with the US Navy and the relevant contractor, has finished the preliminary damage assessment from the Russian illegal in New London, Connecticut.” Benford looked down at his notes. “While the Pentagon is still preparing a report on the long-term ramifications of the penetration of the navy program, initial conclusions are that the Russians did not acquire sufficient technical intelligence to materially degrade the operational viability of the platform—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Benford,” said Senator Boucher. Her fellow senators recognized the attack display and braced themselves. “Why do you use
platform
when you can just as clearly say
submarine
when talking about them?”

“Submarine, then, thank you, Senator,” said Benford. He waited for the codicil. Boucher expostulated briefly on the outmoded capabilities of US subs as compared with the Dolgorukiy class of ballistic submarines just now making their appearance in the Russian Navy.
She is well-read,
thought Benford. The senator swerved again.

“But wouldn’t you say that the real counterintelligence issue, the real teachable moment coming out of New London, is that neither American intelligence nor law enforcement had the wit to detect, locate, and apprehend a Russian illegal officer operating in the United States for nearly half a decade? This illegal moreover had infiltrated the program with apparent ease, despite background and security checks.” Boucher tapped a pencil on the blotter in front of her.

“Since the end of the Cold War, Senator, the classic use of illegals is extremely rare. Even the Russians acknowledge that it is a costly and inefficient way to collect intelligence,” said Benford. He would under no circumstances mention how they had gotten onto the illegal in the first place.

“That’s not at all what I asked, Mr. Benford. Pay attention. I asked which agency, in your opinion, is the more incompetent: the CIA or the FBI?”

“I have no opinion on the matter, Senator,” said Benford. “In the aftermath of the New London affair we, unfortunately, have bigger fish to fry.”

“What kind of fish?” asked Boucher.

“We have indications that the Russians are running a separate reporting source. Someone with good access. We are just starting; there’s nothing confirmed,” said Benford.

“Stop this tap dance,” snapped Boucher. “What are you talking about?”

Benford took an audible deep breath. He closed his briefing book and folded his hands on top of the cover. He looked at the Senate seal on the wall above the members’ heads. “We have fragmentary information that there is a high-level penetration of the US government with exceptional access to national security secrets currently being handled by the SVR.”

“How close are you to identifying this leak?” asked the senator from Florida.

“We do not know who, what, or where,” said Benford. “We’re checking every possibility.”

“Sounds like you don’t have the slightest idea,” said Boucher.

“Senator, these investigations take time,” offered the senator from New York.

Boucher laughed. “Yeah, I know all about these investigations. Hundreds of people keeping busy and drawing salaries, but no one seems to catch anyone.”

Benford let the members talk among themselves for a minute before raising his voice again. “As we try to develop more information, we do have an unsubstantiated report that the individual in question might suffer from an incapacitating condition—shingles. It may be useful later, as we narrow our search and begin cross-checking.”

“This is all inconclusive,” said Boucher, turning toward the dais. “If my committee colleagues have no objection, I must excuse myself for another
important meeting of a separate committee.” She turned to Benford. “I’m done for today.” Boucher rose from her seat, gathered her classified folder, and walked to the door. The other senators rustled papers and fell silent as Boucher opened the massive door and left the room.

Benford did not raise his head. It was done. Fifteen of them had heard “shingles.” Two days earlier three undersecretaries of defense in a Pentagon briefing had heard the same thing, and in three days so would the special assistant to the president and senior director for Defense during a brief to selected NSC staff.

As he snapped his briefcase shut in the empty SSCI committee room, Benford pictured the jowly faces in the Kremlin and thought,
You want a canary, comrades, I’ll give you a canary
.

General Korchnoi had been summoned to the Director’s secure conference room on the fourth floor of Yasenevo by Vanya Egorov’s aide. Dimitri had called him the instant he stepped into his office, even before Korchnoi had hung his coat in the closet and sat down to review morning traffic. It sounded urgent. The general looked wistfully at the covered plate of
sirniki,
hot cheese pancakes with sour cream that his secretary had left for him and that he had planned to munch as he read. They would grow cold and rubbery before he could get back. As he left his office, he rolled up one of the pancakes and stuffed it into his mouth.

Since he had discovered that Vanya was playing games, setting canary traps, dredging for the CIA mole within the SVR, Korchnoi’s double life hardened from a now-familiar baseline of danger into one of imminent, guilty dread. For fourteen years he had lived under constant pressure; he had learned to accommodate it, but there was a difference between spying undetected and being hunted.

As he pushed through the front doors of Headquarters each morning, he was never sure whether he would be greeted by stone-faced security officers who would hustle him from the lobby into a side room. Every time the phone rang on his desk, he could never know it was not a summons to
a windowless room filled with unsmiling faces. Every weekend outing was a potential ambush arrest on a wooded country road or in a lonely dacha.

Korchnoi got off the elevator and walked past the portraits.
Hello, old walruses,
he thought.
Have you caught me yet?
He entered the executive conference room to see Vanya Egorov sitting on the corner of the table laughing at something Line KR Chief Alexei Zyuganov was saying.
This is the little
domovoi,
the little goblin, who stuffed rags into prisoners’ mouths before shooting them in the forehead because their cries for mercy
bothered
him,
thought Korchnoi. Zyuganov watched as the general walked across the room toward them.

Egorov’s big marble head glistened, and his shirt was fresh and starched. He hugged his old friend and waved him to a seat. “I wanted to meet here, Volodya, because they can set up the projector. Since you’re now directing the operation, I wanted to show you some extra material.” He picked up a remote control and pushed a button. Projected on the wall was a grainy photograph of Nathaniel Nash, hands in the pockets of a coat, hunched against the cold, walking along what looked like a Moscow street. “You wouldn’t know this man, Volodya, but he is the CIA officer Nash, who is handling the traitor. He was posted to Moscow for less than two years and left approximately eighteen months ago.”

Korchnoi wondered first whether the surveillance photo of Nate had been taken while he was on the way back from one of their meetings. Then he wondered whether this was all sarcastic drama to bait him. Would the conference-room doors burst open to admit rushing security men? Was Egorov this devious, would he be inclined to torment him this way?
No,
Korchnoi thought,
it’s nothing. This is your life, breathe it in, circle the abyss, stay cool.

“This Nash was very skillful. But for one bungled near miss, we never were able to determine even a mote of his activities.” Egorov paused to light a cigarette. He offered the pack around the table. Korchnoi filed away the words that seemed to confirm he was still safe. Unless this was all Egorov’s elaborate red herring.

“I personally believe that the traitor is in the Service,” said Egorov, while Zyuganov looked evenly at the image of Nash on the screen. Were they playing with him? Korchnoi thought. Zyuganov easily could be this diabolical.

“It is an assumption you’re making about the Service,” prattled Zyuganov.
“One thing is sure. The Americans would not run the extraordinary risk of meetings in Moscow to handle a low-level source.”

Say something, be casual.
“If you’re both right, brothers,” said Korchnoi, “and he’s a big fish
and
he’s in the Service, then the short list of candidates would be the Director, you, Vanya, and the twelve department heads, including Lyosha and me.” Korchnoi saw their sour looks. What was he doing? This was exhilarating madness.

“That, of course, is not considering that it could additionally be your special assistant, or a secretary, or a communications-code clerk, or a hundred other employees with indirect access to cable reading boards, their bosses’ in-boxes, and to unguarded conversations in anterooms and the cafeteria. Clerks in Records see more sensitive paper in a day than the three of us combined see in a week.” Korchnoi could tell from Zyuganov’s expression that he had already calculated all that. All the more people to interrogate.

Korchnoi decided to stop there.
Too much analysis, too many pat phrases.
Egorov ground out his cigarette. “You are exactly correct, Volodya. There are too many possibilities. We’ll catch this
svoloch
only if we get a creditable internal lead, or if we catch him or his handler on the street. These two options could take months, even years. That’s why our third option is the only one.”

“
Ogovoreno,
agreed; your niece is our best chance,” said Korchnoi. This scene was unthinkable, improbable, impossible. He suppressed insane, cackling laughter. He was discussing finding the spy, flushing him out, exposing him, catching him.

Zyuganov swiveled in his chair, his feet not touching the carpet. “And if your niece does not succeed in a reasonable amount of time? Perhaps we then consider other means.”

Egorov turned to him quickly. “Absolutely not. I have received instructions from the highest levels. No ‘active measures’ in this operation. Is that clear?” Zyuganov swiveled a little more, a faint smile on his face.

“You’re right,” said Korchnoi. “In the history of our Service, in the history of postwar intelligence operations, no service has ever
intentionally
harmed an officer of an opposing service. It is not done. It would create havoc.” Zyuganov swiveled.

“Volodya, relax. If we wanted to try the rough stuff, I’d be talking to Line F, not you,” said Egorov, laughing. Korchnoi saw Zyuganov’s right eyelid
twitch. “No, what I want is an elegant operation, nuanced, brilliant, that will produce quick results and will leave the Main Enemy wondering what hit them, wondering how they lost their sensitive asset and marveling at the SVR’s skill and cunning.”

MARBLE’S SIRNIKI PANCAKES

Thoroughly blend soft goat cheese, eggs, sugar, salt, and flour into a sticky dough. Refrigerate. Drop small balls of the dough into flour, coat well, and flatten into thin discs. Fry in melted butter over medium heat until golden. Serve with sour cream, caviar, smoked fish, or jam.

   
30   

Korchnoi and Dominika
were standing in the tiny living room of the general’s apartment. The old man contemplated her unsettling beauty, and noted how smoothly she moved, how she walked with her back straight, how her eyes locked on his. The more time he spent with her, the more he was convinced that he had chosen correctly. Now he had to enlist her. Tonight would be tricky.

Outwardly she was unemotional, controlled, focused. But in her interactions, her gestures, even in her deference to him, Korchnoi saw her anger and determination. She had never spoken about Sparrow School, but Korchnoi had quietly found out most of the facts, just as he had done regarding her interrogation in Lefortovo.

She was hiding something, he knew. She daily declared herself eager to engage again with the American. But the timbre of her voice, the tilt of her head, made Korchnoi suspect that Dominika’s contact with Nathaniel in Helsinki had created conflicts, sympathies, perhaps feelings for him. He would soon find out.

They had started work on the “Nash Project,” as he called it. In his darkened office with the shades drawn, the general had clicked a remote, and images of Nate were projected on the white wall of the office. Out of the corner of his eye, Korchnoi saw Dominika draw in a breath. From the side, he could see her nostril flare. He went on remorselessly, minutely describing what the SVR knew about Nash, reviewing her own reports from Helsinki, watching her, weighing her inner reserves.

He had turned off the projector and looked at her sternly. This was more complicated than the previous mission in Helsinki, he told her. Dominika must travel outside Russia, and in order to make her foreign trips plausible, she would be reassigned to the SVR Courier Service in Directorate OT. She had to operate alone, in the West. She had to get close to and seduce the young American, identify the
krysa,
the rat. Could she still do that? Her dark eyes flashed, wavered. Emotion. Conflict.