Red Sparrow (73 page)

On the Estonian side of the bridge Benford sat fifty meters from the bridge inside a van parked in the center of the road. He could look straight down the roadway of the bridge at the parked Russian vehicles. Next to Benford’s van a small KaPo jeep was pulled over on the shoulder. Four black-suited troopers sat in the jeep smoking. KaPo had intended to put two spotters in the bastion of the Hermann Castle tower, but the ministry did not have the budget for nightscopes. The lights on the bridge would have to be enough.

There was a sound of squeaking brake pads and the crunch of tires on the gravel shoulder, a car coasting to a stop. Benford saw Nate get out of a little green compact, his hair down over his forehead, a ridiculous blue and white—no, it was the Greek flag—on his T-shirt. Benford got out of the van and walked back to the car.

“What are you doing here, Nash?” said Benford in a low, even voice. “And what is that ridiculous shirt you’re wearing? Do you know what is supposed to happen in a half hour? Have the kindness to get into the van and stay out of sight. You need a shower.” Benford steered Nate into the van and slid the door closed. The KaPo troopers in the jeep looked over and wondered what was going on. Benford walked over to them and accepted an offered cigarette. The troopers were respectfully quiet.

Benford could see more activity at the other end of the bridge. The light trucks parked lengthwise across the bridge were separated slightly and the Tigre APC had moved between them. A soldier had unlimbered the gun on the roof. From behind Benford came the sound of another vehicle, and Gable pulled up in a nondescript black sedan. He appeared to be alone in the car. Gable got out and walked toward Benford.

“Tell me what you have done,” said Benford. “Tell me you have her.”

“The Russians tried for her last night in Athens. A rescue team, they called themselves. I have no idea how they tracked us, someone the Russians have at the hotel, the cops, I don’t know. She killed both of them, executed them.” The KaPo troopers had climbed out of their jeep and were standing behind it, looking at the Russian side of the bridge through binoculars.

“
She
killed them? Where is she right now?” asked Benford. “Do we have someone to swap for MARBLE?”

“She told me no. For six hours it was no. Nothing I could say to change her mind. The next morning I was going to turn her over to Forsyth to fly her to the States, and she was waiting for me by the car. Waxing the two Center goons may have done the trick, I don’t know. She’s seriously furious.” Benford looked as though he was going to pass out. “She’s in the backseat, lying down; she got back there as we entered Narva. I wanted to change the profile.” Benford blew out a stream of smoke. It had been nearly seventy-two hours of not knowing.

“She agreed?” Benford asked.

“Yes and no. Told me to go to hell, that she was doing it to spring MARBLE, for no other reason. Said she’s going back to think about working with us. In the meantime, she intends to raise hell in the Center. We might have an agent, we might not. She’ll let us know.”

“What does that mean?” said Benford.

Gable ignored the question. “Another thing. Nash is an issue. She asked about him.” Benford started laughing. “What?” said Gable.

“Nash is in the van. I don’t know how he did it, but he got here from Athens and showed up. That’s his car behind the van.”

“State of mind?” asked Gable.

“Agitated, intense, exhausted. What are you thinking?”

“What I’m thinking is that we let them talk for a few minutes—might be good for both of them. Leave her with a memory to take back with her, settle him down. I can pull the car up and get her into the back of the van so no one sees.”

“Okay, we’re waiting anyway. But wait till I talk to Nash for a second.” Benford slid the van door open, climbed in, and sat beside Nate on the middle bench seat. Nash had found a jacket in the back and had run his fingers through his hair. He looked tired, but presentable. Benford slid the door partly closed and leaned back in the seat.

“DIVA and Gable have arrived. She is in the car. Last night the Russians tried to rescue her and she killed two men. She has agreed to return to Russia only because of the swap, to free MARBLE. As for working inside, she has not made any commitment and we do not know the extent to which she is now, or in the future will be, our agent.

“We have a few minutes, and Gable believes it would be salutary for DIVA to speak with you. I need you to become her recruiting officer once again. I need you to be inspirational. I need you to speak to her of duty and mission and long-term espionage. There is only one way to play this that will not result in her arrest at the other end of that bridge—as a case officer preparing his agent. Otherwise it will break her composure. Can you do this?”

Nate nodded. Benford exited the van and Nate heard engine noise and the click of a door and the back of the van opened up and Dominika quickly
stepped inside and the door slammed shut. She squeezed past the rear seat and sat down beside him. She was dressed in a simple navy dress with a light coat of the same color. Gable had insisted on sensible black laced shoes and beige hose. She had pinned her hair up and wore no makeup, a matron just out of CIA captivity. The blue eyes were the same, and she looked at Nate, searching his face. He was bathed in a pale purple glow; it told her he was in pain.

For the first time in his young career, Nate did not automatically think about the ramifications of breaking the rules, of ignoring Benford, of blowing a hole in his rep. He leaned forward, grabbed Dominika by the shoulders, and pressed his lips on hers. She stiffened, then relaxed and finally put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him back.

“We don’t have time—not remotely enough time—to tell you I’m sorry about what I said to you,” said Nate. “There’s no time to tell you what you mean to me, as a woman, as a lover, as a partner. And there’s no time to tell you how much I will miss you.

“I’m supposed to talk to you about continuing our clandestine relationship, about how you should keep operating for the CIA in Moscow. I don’t care about that right now. I know you’re going back just to save the general; I would do the same, so whatever happens, you’ve delivered him. But I want you to stay safe; none of this is worth it. You’re the only thing that’s important, at least to me.”

Nate looked self-consciously away, through the van windshield at the fog-shredded roadway, a time tunnel receding into Russia. Dominika turned to look at the same thing, making up her mind.

“You needn’t worry about me, Neyt,” said Dominika flatly. “I am going back to my country, among my own people. I will be fine. How convenient it has been for you to apologize and tell me you will worry about me five minutes before I cross the border. Please do me a favor,” said Dominika, “don’t give me a second thought.” Dushka,
let me go,
she thought.

She got out of her seat, slid to the back door, and tapped on the glass. Nate watched her go. He stared at the fog, hands clasped behind his head.

Gable saw her eyes and knew she was holding on by a thread. Goddamn Nash. She needed stiffening, and fast. He steered her to the car, screened by the van.

“Get in,” said Gable, “I want to talk to you.” She slid across the backseat and Gable climbed in beside her, slammed the door. He played it rough, pretending not to notice her eyes.

“There will be about a dozen binoculars on you the minute you step outside this vehicle into the clear,” Gable said. “Guards’ll be worrying about security, but there will be others looking at you. Counterintelligence guys, the CI monkeys
looking specifically at you
. Do you understand?” Dominika avoided looking at him and nodded.

“When you cross, walk at a steady pace. Not too fast, but not hesitant either. It’s important that you don’t look at Korchnoi when you pass him on the bridge. He’s a traitor, and you were the one who put him in prison,” said Gable.

“They might call for you both to stop at the midway point on the roadway. It’s marked with a line of asphalt, a little bump in the road. It’s normal; the guards aren’t happy unless they’re shouting into bullhorns. They probably will be transmitting video images of you back to the Center to confirm your identity.” Dominika was better. Gable could see she had started thinking about the walk ahead and not Nash.

“Steady pace right up to the trucks. It’ll be a Leningrad knuckle-dragger in a bad suit who steps up to say . . . What will he say?”

“
Dobro pozhalovet,
” said Dominika, staring out the window. Welcome home.

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and kick him between the legs. Your behavior from then on is critical. Remember,” said Gable, “you’re coming home, freed from CIA custody. You’re relieved and, well,
safe
. Not exactly talkative, that would be inappropriate. You’ve accounted for three KIAs, your own frigging people tried to
kill you,
and you’re pissed. You’ll be surrounded by all those Leningrad thugs in the car or on the train, or however they get you up to Saint Petersburg.”

“I am familiar with the species,” said Dominika. “There will be no trouble from them. I have just come back from an operation
for the Center
. The only people I will talk to are in Moscow.”

“Exactly. And once you’re there, show them your Greek stitches and yell about the Spetsnaz maniac, and about Korchnoi and what took them so long to come get you. You’re back, baby, you’re back.”

“Yes,” said Dominika, “I am back.”

“And we’ll see you in six months,” said Gable.

“Do not count on it,” said Dominika.

“You remember the universal call-out number?”

“I threw it away,” Dominika said.

“After you memorized it,” said Gable.

“Tell Forsyth good-bye for me,” she said, ignoring him.

Lyudmila Mykhailivna Pavlichenko was the storied Red Army sniper, the deadliest female sniper in history, with 309 confirmed kills during the Crimean campaign in World War II. This evening, on the ruined south tower of the Ivangorod Fortress on the Russian riverbank, her namesake Lyudmila Tsukanova, the primary sniper of SVR Special Group B, eased onto her stomach and settled herself. She was dressed in a baggy black coverall, a hood pulled over her head tight around her cherry-splotched face. Her felt-soled boots were splayed out flat behind her. She snugged the VSS Vintorez rifle, the “thread cutter,” against her riotous, chapped cheek and sighted through the NSPU-3 nightscope three hundred meters diagonally across the water at the western end of the Narva Bridge—this would be a night shot comfortably within her ability. She was looking for a profile—a dark-haired woman who walked with a slight limp.

The medium Mi-14 “Haze” helicopter with the black Mickey Mouse nose was a civilian transport version painted red and white. It settled slowly into the empty parking lot of the Ivangorod Railroad Station. The mustard walls of the station’s baroque façade flashed pink in the range lights of the helicopter. As the helicopter bounced on its gear, the engine note dropped from a scream to a whine to a purr. The massive rotors stopped spinning and drooped, hot in the chilly night air. No doors opened on the
helicopter until two of the SVR cars that had been waiting down the road pulled up tight alongside. The side passenger door opened and two men in suits banged the metal stairs down and walked a frail white-haired figure to the lead car.