Damned impertinence. Vanya was not about to discuss politics, nor Putin’s toxic narcissism, nor the necessity of making an example of Ustinov for the benefit of the other kulaks. No, he had summoned his niece for two reasons. He wanted to assess her state of mind, to judge whether she could keep her mouth shut, whether she could put the incident behind her, recover from her trauma. And depending on the answer to the first question, he would have to consider two further options.
If Dominika rose from her chair, unhinged and refusing to listen, she could not leave the headquarters building alive. Matorin would solve the
problem. Dominika might not realize it, but she was an eyewitness to a political assassination that Putin’s enemies would love to document for the world. If that happened, he, Egorov, would be forfeit. Right now certain State organs were covering Ustinov’s death as a grisly murder at the hands of a business rival. Everyone knew the truth; this had been expected. But if his twenty-five-year-old niece with Fabergé-blue eyes and a 95C bosom subsequently stood up and told what she had seen, and from what vantage point, the opposition press would never stop.
If, however, she seemed under control, he would take steps to ensure her continued discretion. His political well-being hinged on her future good behavior. He had already decided that he would accomplish this by bringing her inside, into the Service, under the permanent discipline and supervision of the Center. There would be no difficulty doing so. A job in records, in the archives. She would be accounted for, engaged in training, learning procedures and regulations. They could keep an eye on her. Depending on her performance—he did not expect much—she could be given a clerical job in one of the departments, an ornament in the outer office of some general. Later, perhaps, she could be assigned abroad, buried in a
rezidentura
in Africa or Latin America. After five years—by that time the directorship would be his—she could even be cashiered for cause and kicked out.
Vanya spoke softly. “Niece, it is your duty to be always loyal, to do your utmost, to serve your country. There is no question of your discretion. It is absolutely required of you. Is this going to be a problem between us?” Vanya looked at Dominika steadily as he knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette.
It was the exact moment where the next part of her life would be decided. The usual yellow halo around Vanya’s head had grown darker, as if suffused with blood, and the timbre of his voice had changed, taken on an edge. In a telepathic flash Dominika realized it, remembered her mother’s whispers.
Zaledenet,
she thought, summoning control.
Become ice.
She looked up at her uncle, whom she was beginning to detest, and also beginning to fear. Their eyes met.
“You can depend on my discretion,” she said woodenly.
“I knew I could,” said Vanya. She was a smart girl, he could see her instincts at play, she had sense. Now to put a cube of sugar on the teaspoon.
“And because you have performed so well, I have a proposal.” He leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. “I am offering you a starting position as a staff member of the Service. I want you to join me in our work here.”
Dominika willed herself to remain expressionless, and was satisfied watching Vanya’s eyes searching her face for a reaction. “In the Service?” she said. “I have never considered it.”
“This would be a fine opportunity for you right now. Steady employment, start accumulating a pension. If you belong to the Service, I can continue to guarantee your mother can keep her apartment. Besides, what else would you do, look for a job as, what, a dance instructor?” He crossed his hands on his desk.
Dominika mentally marked the spot on Uncle Vanya’s shirt where she would plunge the pencil lying on his desk. She lowered her eyes and kept her voice calm. “Helping Mother would be important,” she said. Vanya made an
Of course
gesture with his hand. “It would be strange to work here,” she added.
“Not so strange,” said Vanya. “And we could work together.” The words floated above his head, changing color with the sunlight outside.
Of course,
thought Dominika,
a staff recruit would work closely every day with the Deputy Director.
“What sorts of duties would I be assigned?” said Dominika. She knew enough already to guess the answer.
“You would have to begin at the entry level, of course,” said Vanya. “But all the functions of the Service satisfy a critical need. Records, research, archives. An intelligence organization survives or perishes on how it manages information.” Of course, they wanted her buried in the third subbasement.
“I’m not sure I know about such duties, Uncle,” said Dominika. “I don’t think I would do well.” Vanya hid his irritation. He really had only two choices with this Venus de Milo. Matorin could dispose of her before lunch, or he could get her into the Service, under control. The middle ground was unacceptable. She couldn’t be left walking around Moscow, resentment growing, perhaps thinking of getting even.
Sookin syn
.
“I’m sure you would learn quickly. It’s quite important work,” Vanya said. Now he was reduced to trying to convince this silly twit.
“I do think I would have an interest in another part of the Service,” said
Dominika. Vanya peered over the desk at her, hands clasped and motionless. She was still sitting with a straight back, head erect, stricken. Vanya said nothing, waited. “I would like to be admitted to the Foreign Intelligence Academy as a candidate trainee.”
“The Academy, the AVR,” said Vanya slowly. “You want to be an intelligence officer. In the Service?”
“Yes, I think I would do well,” said Dominika. “You yourself said I performed satisfactorily with Ustinov in gaining his trust.” Raising Ustinov made the point. Vanya lit his third cigarette in as many minutes. Not counting the women in support functions, there had been two, perhaps three, women in the First Chief Directorate in the old KGB, and one of them was an old battleax in the Presidium. None had ever been admitted to the old KGB Higher School or to the Andropov Institute or to the current AVR. The only women involved in field operations were the co-opted wives of
rezidenturi
officers, and the
vorobey,
the trained “Sparrows” who seduced recruitment targets.
But in thirty seconds Vanya Egorov made a lightning calculation. As a candidate in AVR, his niece would be under even more stringent control. Her performance, attitude, and physical whereabouts for the foreseeable future would be constantly monitored. She would be physically out of Moscow for long periods of time. If she strayed and was tempted to open her mouth, she would fall under the disciplinary jurisdiction of the Service. Her dismissal, even imprisonment, would be a matter of a stroke of the pen.
More broadly, he could generate some political profit from putting her name forward as a candidate for the Academy. He would be the high-minded deputy director who for the first time selected a woman—athletic, educated, fluent in languages—for formal training in the modern SVR. Bosses in the Kremlin would see the public-relations benefits.
From across the desk, Dominika saw his face, followed his calculations. Now would come the reluctant agreement, the inevitable stern warnings.
“You’re asking a lot,” Vanya said. “There’s an entrance examination, a high refusal rate, then long training, quite rigorous.” He swiveled in his chair to look out the picture window, considering. He had made up his mind. “Are you prepared to commit yourself to this path?” he asked.
Dominika nodded. She wasn’t absolutely sure, of course. But it would be a challenge, and that appealed to her. She was also loyal, she loved her country, she knew she wanted to try to join one of the premier organizations
in Russia, perhaps, she thought, even to contribute. The Ustinov killing had repulsed her, but it also had shown her, in the space of an evening, that she could handle secret work, that she had the brains, and the courage, and the fortitude.
There was something else, she knew, something ill-defined, something accumulating in her breast. They had used her. Now she wanted to intrude into their world, these
domovladel’tsy,
these landlords who abused the system and its people. She wondered what her father would think.
“I will consider it,” said Vanya, swiveling back to look at her. “If I decide to submit your name, and if you are selected, your performance in the AVR will be a reflection on me, on the whole family. You realize that, do you not?” Charming. His concern for her and the family had not kept him from throwing her at Ustinov.
She almost said,
I’ll be sure to preserve your reputation,
but pushed the anger back down and instead nodded again, more sure now about wanting the Academy. Vanya stood up. “Why don’t you go downstairs and have lunch? I will tell you my decision this afternoon.” He would have to clear it with the Director (gentle persuasion) and the director of training would have to be browbeaten (a pleasure). But Dominika’s place would be reserved, and the thing would be done, and his problem with her would be solved. When she left, Vanya picked up the phone and spoke briefly into it.
Dominika was escorted back down the hallway to the elevator. The former directors all looked as if they had faint smiles on their faces. In the sprawling cafeteria, Dominika ordered the
kotleta po-kievski,
a hard roll, and a bottle of mineral water. The cafeteria was moderately crowded and Dominika had to search for an empty seat. She found a table where two middle-aged women were sitting at the other end. They looked at the beautiful young girl with the tired eyes and the visitor’s badge, but said nothing. Dominika began eating. The chicken was lightly breaded, golden brown, and delicious. A trickle of butter came from the rolled-up cutlet; there was the rich taste of garlic and tarragon. The cutlet morphed into Ustinov’s throat and the butter sauce turned vermilion. She put down her knife and fork with trembling hands. Dominika closed her eyes and fought the nausea. The two women at her table were looking at her. This was not something you see every day. They didn’t know how right they were.
Dominika looked up and saw swirling black. Sergey Matorin was sitting
at the table across from hers, leaning over a bowl, spooning soup into his mouth. He was staring at her as he ate, his dead eye unblinking, just as a wolf watches even while drinking at a brook.
SVR CAFETERIA CHICKEN KIEV
Mix and chill compound butter with garlic, tarragon, lemon juice, and parsley. Pound chicken breasts into wafer-thin cutlets. Roll tightly around thumb-sized pieces of compound butter, tie with twine. Dust with seasoned flour, dip in egg wash, coat with bread crumbs. Fry until golden brown.
6
Dominika entered the
SVR’s Academy of Foreign Intelligence (AVR) soon after her father’s funeral. The school had been renamed several times during the Cold War, from the Higher Intelligence School to the Red Banner Institute to the AVR, but veterans simply called it School No. 101. The main campus for decades had been located north of Moscow, near the village of Chelobityevo. By the time it became the AVR, the school had been modernized, the curriculum streamlined, admission criteria liberalized. The campus had moved to a clearing in the dense forests east of the city at kilometer twenty-five on the Gorky Highway. It was therefore now referred to as “Kilometer 25” or simply “the Forest.”
In the early weeks, wary and excited, Dominika, the only woman, and a dozen new classmates were driven in rattling PAZ buses with darkly tinted windows to various locations around Moscow and the surrounding suburbs. They rolled through sliding metal gates into anonymous walled compounds registered as laboratories, research centers, or Pioneer Youth camps. The days were filled with lectures about the history of the Services, of Russia, of the Cold War, and the Soviet Union.
Whereas the chief attribute previously required for acceptance into former KGB schools was fealty to the Communist Party, the modern SVR required of its trainees an overarching devotion to the Russian Federation and a commitment to protect it from enemies within and without.
For the first period of indoctrination, trainees were evaluated not only for aptitude but also for what in the old KGB would have been called “political reliability.” Dominika excelled in class discussions and written assignments. There was a hint of the independent streak in her, of impatience with time-tested formulations and dicta. An instructor had written that Cadet Egorova would hesitate for just a second before answering a question,
as if she were considering whether she chose to answer,
then invariably respond with excellence.
Dominika knew what they wanted to hear. The slogans in the books and on the chalkboards were kaleidoscopes of color, they were easy to categorize
and memorize. Tenets of duty, loyalty, and defense of the country. She was a candidate to become a part of Russia’s elite, the Sword and Shield of yesterday, the Globe and Star of today. Her youthful ideology had once horrified her freethinking father—she knew that now—and she no longer
totally
accepted the ideology. Still, she wanted to do well.
The start of the second training block. The class had moved permanently to the Kilometer 25 campus, a cluster of long, low buildings with pitched-tile roofs, surrounded by pines and stands of birch. Sweeping lawns separated the buildings, gravel paths led to the sports fields behind the buildings. The campus was a kilometer off the four-lane Gorkovskoye shosse, screened first by a tall wooden palisade, painted green to blend in with the trees. Past this “forest fence,” three kilometers farther into the woods, ran two additional wire fence lines, between which black Belgian Malinois hounds ran free. The dog run could be seen from the windows of the small classrooms, and from their rooms in the two-story barracks the students could hear the dogs panting at night.