“Who are you?” Dominika asked.
“I arrived with Nathaniel posing as an art restoration supervisor,” whispered Agnes. “My name is Agnes Krawcyk. Nathaniel was arrested within five minutes of our arrival. I could tell he was surprised. Someone must have given him up.”
Dominika sipped at her champagne. “How long have you known this Nathaniel?” she asked, still cautious.
“Only several years,” said Agnes. “But I worked during the Cold War in Poland for Tom Forsyth.”
“Describe this Forsyth,” said Dominika.
“Salt-and-pepper hair, six feet tall, and slender; he wears his reading glasses on the top of his head. Very experienced, amazing operational mind. He brought Nathaniel to Helsinki from Moscow and saved his career. Satisfied?” Her halo was steady, assured. Dominika put the pistol on the ledge of the balcony. This was Nate’s wingman, and Benford’s clever addition: sacrifice Nate, clear the field, and hope for success. Crazy, but it worked; this woman was here, wasn’t she?
“I’m sure your instructions were never to come to this dacha,” Dominika said.
“I don’t care about the rules anymore,” said Agnes. “I want to save Nathaniel. Where is he? Do you know? Is he all right?”
More than professional focus, thought Dominika. There’s a personal dimension here too. “They were halfway to killing him this afternoon. They broke a finger and his left arm. He resisted a preliminary course of psychotropic drugs. As the Director of SVR, I argued that he should be kept incognito in Moscow, in good condition, to use as a future bargaining chip as developments require. He’s already on a plane to the capital.”
Agnes put down her glass. “You sent him to Moscow? I can’t get to him there. There’s no way he can escape.”
“I saved his life by sending him to Moscow. What were you going to do, shoot your way into the guardroom, grab Nathaniel, and run for the beach? There are five hundred troops in these woods.”
“He might be in one of your prisons for five years,” whispered Agnes.
“I’ll worry about Nate later,” said Dominika. “Right now, you and I need to accomplish one thing. I believe Nate’s superiors in Langley arranged a canary trap to determine the identity of a high-placed mole in the United States named MAGNIT. Did Nate tell you any of this? No, he probably didn’t know himself. During Nate’s interrogation they kept asking about an informant with a code name of CHALICE. I believe that is part of a blue-dye test, a telltale incriminating variant, because I’ve never heard it before. Do you understand what that is? Do you know the word CHALICE? Forsyth and Benford need to know that variant immediately. The word CHALICE will flag the identity of MAGNIT. Do you understand?” Agnes nodded.
“Tonight you’re getting on that drone speedboat, whatever they call it, and you’re going to bring back that code name, and deliver a thumb drive with the details. Demand to speak personally to Simon Benford the minute you get on board the navy ship. Directly to Benford at CIA. No one else. Do you understand?” Agnes nodded her head again.
“How can you protect Nate in a Moscow prison?” asked Agnes.
“There’s only one thing that’s important now,” said Dominika, ignoring Agnes’s mule-headedness. “CHALICE. Bring that name back to Benford. I’ll watch over Nate in Moscow.”
The dacha’s doorbell rang, a strange cacophony of tubular bells that sounded more like wind chimes. Putting a finger to her lips, Dominika signaled that Agnes should hide in the spacious bedroom closet next to the vast bed. Agnes slipped in and soundlessly pulled the louvered doors closed. Dominika ran downstairs, put Agnes’s champagne glass in the cabinet under the sink, and left hers on the counter with half a bottle of champagne. Tugging at the hem of her nightshirt, and fluffing her hair, she walked across the living room to the glassed-in front door.
President Putin was standing under the front entrance lantern, the glow casting shadows under his eyes, nose, and chin, transforming him into a blue-haloed gargoyle, an otherworldly creature on a late-night pop over to visit his new Director of Foreign Intelligence, who was barefoot and dressed in a satin sleep shirt that barely covered her sex, and whose wild hair was tied with a blue ribbon. The satin shirt did nothing to hide the swell of her breasts, or the imprint of her nipples, or the rhythmic flutter of her heartbeat. The president’s retinue of bodyguards was clustered on the paved path below, in three or four electric golf carts, watching. In an acid flash, Dominika knew the head of state of the Russian Federation would in ten minutes be between her legs, that this was the inescapable moment—no more creepy frottage during furtive midnight visits—the moment that CIA asset DIVA would be required to sacrifice herself to her chosen role as spy, seductress, and implacable foe of the monster in the Kremlin. She thought of Gable as she felt herself shutting down, closing the internal doors of her emotions, marshaling strength to overcome revulsion. She was moving into full Sparrow mode. She wondered if Gable was looking down from Heaven’s cocktail lounge.
“Dobriy vecher, Mr. President, good evening,” said Dominika. “This is a pleasant surprise. Do you have time for a glass of champagne? I was having one myself.” Putin waved his security men away into the darkness after one of them asked if he should check the dacha beforehand. As she poured a glass of bubbly, she noticed the extra wet ring made on the countertop by Agnes’s glass, but she smeared it away with her hand, and they clinked glasses and sipped.
“To the quick discovery of the traitor among us,” said Putin, and Dominika rolled the champagne around her tongue, savoring the secret.
“The American knows who it is. We will grind it out of him like a peppercorn under our thumb. Bortnikov and Gorelikov briefed me this afternoon on the CIA officer,” said Putin. “They described the bumbling preliminary interrogation this morning about why he came here and what he knows. They also told me about your proposed solution to the problem, which I found astute and well-timed. Are you enjoying the party?” A typical Putin conversational swerve that, Dominika was convinced, was designed to demonstrate the president’s rapidity of mind.
“I told them both we cannot be eliminating our opponents as if we were barbarians,” said Putin. Króme Shútok Are you kidding? marveled Dominika. She silently thought of the names of the two-hundred-plus journalists, dissidents, and political activists eliminated since the year 2000 under this president’s beneficent reign, not to mention half the civilian population of Grozhny, in Chechnya.
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr. President,” said Dominika. “I am sure we can discover the American mole from a pared-down list of fifty names. In fact, I was going to suggest that you review the final list—your perspective on individuals will be invaluable.” Putin smiled and nodded; he could purge other enemies in the process.
“In five days we will know that name, and all the others,” said Dominika, soothingly. Putin had endorsed her plan not to damage Nate, and to keep him in reserve as a bargaining chip. Now he was talking about crushing peppercorns. A faint sound came from upstairs and Dominika was terrified that Agnes thought the coast was clear and was coming back downstairs. Vladimir had heard the noise and was looking up the stairs. Would the tsar care for a threesome?
“The breeze from the balcony moves the drapes in the bedroom. Come, I’ll show you.” Dominika put her glass down, took the president’s hand—it was callused because he picked at it—and led him upstairs, making as much racket as possible.