“Congratulations, Director,” said a smiling, jubilant Gorelikov with a flourish. “You’ve earned this honor, and we will accomplish great things in the coming months.” Great things, to be sure, thought Dominika. Disrupting democracies, suborning innocents, enabling cloven-footed surrogates, maybe start the next world war. But Anton was reveling in the possibilities now that his ingénue, his creation, had landed the big job. “With the announcement of your new position, I took the liberty of transferring your belongings to your new penthouse on Kutuzovsky Prospekt. You’ll find it elegant and quite comfortable.” How kind and thoughtful. The courteous favor was an opportunity for Gorelikov’s team to rummage through her belongings. Bozhe, thank God I buried my broken SRAC equipment before I left. “The penthouse belonged to Andropov before he became First Secretary,” beamed Anton. Charming. I hope they’ve taken out the hospital bed and oxygen tanks since then. “Your daily schedule will naturally be taken up with more representational duties, starting tomorrow evening with a formal diplomatic reception in the Georgievsky Hall here in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Besides the embassies, there will be various delegations.” Dominika’s irrational first thought was that she had no dress for a formal reception. Gorelikov was a warlock, reading her mind.
“Dominika, I also took the quite outrageous liberty of putting a selection of evening dresses in your closet,” said Anton like a valet, “but I must apologize in advance for my utter lack of style. I hope at least one of them will suit.” The elegant Gorelikov, dressed today in an exquisite gray flannel suit of British cut, a white spread-collar shirt, and a black knit tie, would have chosen, Dominika had no doubt, elegant, expensive frocks in her exact size. Welcome to the club, thought Dominika. Now they’re dressing you like a doll.
“I’m sure they will be quite lovely, thank you,” said Dominika, her mind drifting. She knew Benford would hear about her long-anticipated promotion within a day: TASS and Pravda would carry the announcement, doubtless highlighting the fact that General Dominika Egorova was one of the highest-ranked women in the government. Modern Russia making great strides, thought Dominika, despite the unavoidable fact that the entire country was nothing more than a big petrol station with nuclear weapons and heaps of murdered dissidents.
The crowd made no move to disperse—no one arrived at a State function after the president and likewise no one departed before him—so Dominika continued speaking with Gorelikov, and they were soon joined by a mild and complimentary Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB, in a gorgeous powder-blue uniform with gold braid at lapels and cuffs. Bortnikov was a lieutenant general with three stars, after all. He shook hands with Dominika as he congratulated her, and his politely firm grip was dry and warm, his steady blue halo—matched by the equally steady aura above Gorelikov’s head and shoulders—hinted at reserve and good sense. Perhaps she could eventually count these two as true allies in this Kremlin maze. Then she remembered that this beneficent and reasonable grandfather had planned and authorized Litvinenko’s assassination in London. No one, but no one, was an ally.
Sidelong glances from the milling siloviki were ill disguised; nervous noses already had sniffed the air and tentatively identified a newly formed triumvirate—Gorelikov and the Directors of SVR and FSB, a potent cabal favored by the president himself. But Dominika remembered Benford’s warning when the subject of her becoming head of SVR first was raised: “You’ll be close to the top, but even as you become indispensable to Vladimir, so will you be considered a threat to his suzerainty.” Nate had to translate that word, but she knew he was right. From now on, her official life would be plagued with hidden tests, sly traps, and constant assessments of her loyalty. She grimly told herself that gutting the Kremlin for Benford, Nate, and Forsyth would be trebly satisfying from now on, as long as she survived.
The familiar heartache welled up in her breast. Where was Nate now? Would they let them see each other? She would have to pick a plausible foreign trip, her first as Director, to be able to meet with her CIA friends, and from now on she would have to contend with hovering aides and ever-present security personnel.
Dominika would be busy in the next weeks, and she would have to alter her mode of operating. She’d have to concoct a reason to go out alone without an escort, to put down a signal for a personal meet with Ricky Walters, and make arrangements for a foreign trip in the near future. That would take a few weeks to arrange. Dominika had a lot to pass to her handlers, and she desperately needed reliable, secure commo. She still hadn’t decided whether to tell Benford and Nate that she had saved Nate’s life in Hong Kong. But for now, she had to get ready for a party.
The Georgievsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace was an endless series of massive and ornately decorated coffered ceilings supported by spiraled-fluted marble columns at each pier, with intricate capitals and plinths, an ivory and gold arcade of dazzling opulence illuminated by colossal chandeliers hanging in a line from each dome, three, four, five, six of them, with galaxies of lights reflecting off the polished parquet floor inlaid with colored pieces of precious wood, set in patterns as complex as a Tabriz carpet from Persia. The room was filled to capacity with the boisterous Moscow foreign diplomatic corps, jostling and carrying flutes of champagne above their heads as they pressed through the throng. The oligarchs milled quietly in a corner, each wondering whether, when, and under what pretext their pre-Putin fortunes would be appropriated. The siloviki kept loose station around the president as he halfheartedly worked the crowd, dispensing an infrequent wry grin, or very rarely, a lopsided smile, which clearly he managed at a grave cost.
High-ranking Russian military officers from the army, navy, and air force stayed segregated in their herds, respectively green, navy, or light blue, like grazing herds of African antelope, the kudus apart from the sables, separate from the impalas. Dominika had known Gorelikov would stuff her closet with fabulous frocks. Two from Paris (a Vuitton and a Dior) and one from Milan (a Rinaldi), but she had worn the more demure Dior, a silk champagne-pink beaded floral-print gown with hourglass bodice, ruched waist, and low-cut plunge. Gorelikov steered her around the crowd, making introductions. She already knew the buffaloes on the Security Council and the secretary of the Council, dour Nikolai Patrushev, who stayed with her for a few minutes chatting, while looking down the front of her dress. Nikolai drifted off when Bortnikov eased up and kept Dominika amused for fifteen minutes whispering in her ear to point out the known and suspect foreign-intelligence officers from the respective embassies.
“That’s the German BND representative?” asked Dominika. “He looks like a godovalyy bychok, a breeder hog. He cannot be active on the street.” Bortnikov pointed to a thin man with white hair talking to a group of diplomats. “The American Chief of Station Reynolds, capable, cunning, and tricky,” said Bortnikov. “His officers are active on the street, but we have not detected their activities . . . yet.” Keep up the good work, Dominika telegraphed to the American.
Suddenly Gorelikov excused himself and made his way through the crowd, weaving his way around obstructions halfway down the length of the one-hundred-meter room. Russian naval uniforms had gathered at a doorway to greet another arriving group of a dozen foreign naval officers—Bortnikov whispered they were Americans, a US Navy delegation—and there seemed to be as much gold braid and as many chests full of ribbons on the Americans as on the Russians.