“I don’t dwell on anything but doing what I have to,” said Dominika.
Agnes nodded. “In Poland, it was the same for me. I slept with half the politburo for their secrets, and with three Soviet colonels on the military advisory staff in Warsaw.”
“I trust you sleep well at night? No nightmares?” said Dominika, impressed.
Agnes averted her eyes. “And what does Nathaniel think about this?”
Dominika stiffened. Here it was. “What Nate and I have together is apart from all this. What we have together is despite all this,” said Dominika, with an edge in her voice. Agnes looked down at the floor.
“Tell me,” said Dominika, standing straight to look at Agnes squarely. “What is it exactly that you and Nate have together, if I may ask?”
“You can rest easy, General Egorova,” said Agnes softly. “We worked together, and I love the boy, but his heart belongs to you. You have nothing to fear from me.” The two women knew the unspoken parts, which needed no further discussion.
Agnes looked at her watch. “When does that damn boat arrive?”
“Exactly at midnight about thirty minutes from now,” said Dominika. “You must carry back the thumb drive that explains the whole situation, MAGNIT’s identity, and Nate’s status. It’s absolutely critical that you talk to Benford or Forsyth. Even if you have to call them from a phone booth in Varna, just tell them CHALICE.”
“Do you have something that is waterproof that I can carry the thumb drive in?” asked Agnes “I don’t want to risk getting seawater on it.” Dominika ran upstairs, dug out the thumb drive, and stuffed it into the now unwrapped Hussar condom from the bedside table drawer and tied a tight knot in the rubber. Back downstairs, she flipped it to Agnes.
“Are you serious?” she said, holding the rubber between thumb and forefinger.
“Don’t worry,” said Dominika. “One owner, never been driven, low mileage.”
“Okay, now it’s waterproof. But if I don’t get the message to Benford in time, you are in grave danger, isn’t that so?” asked Agnes.
Dominika nodded. “If you consider that the execution chamber in Butyrka Prison constitutes grave danger, then you are correct.”
“So if something befalls you, something catastrophic, and Nate eventually is released, it leaves the field open for me, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely,” said Dominika, staring at her. “He would be all yours.” This was one cat hissing at another, establishing the relationship. Agnes’s crimson halo was steady and bright. She would not betray the cause any more than Dominika would, and they both knew it. Agnes looked again at her watch.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get down to the beach.”
Dominika left Agnes downstairs briefly while she dressed in tights, black stretch top, and rubber-soled shoes to walk on beach rocks. She stood stock-still when she heard voices downstairs. The man’s voice was unmistakably that of Gorelikov. The words were indistinguishable but the tone was pure Anton: courtly, polite, and modulated. Agnes’s voice was also calm, but Dominika couldn’t make out her words either. Bogu moy, my God, what possible cover story could explain Agnes’s presence in the personal dacha of the Director of SVR? Old school chums? A shared interest in the decorative arts? Saving water by taking showers together? Dominika set her jaw, and walked downstairs, to confront disaster.
“Anton, what are you doing here at this hour?” asked Dominika. “You just missed the president. He left a few minutes ago after a glass of champagne.” Dominika nodded at Agnes as if to say her presence was totally natural. Gorelikov looked from Dominika to Agnes then back to Dominika. Go ahead, assume we’re pizdolizi, girlfriends.
“I have just had the pleasure of meeting this young lady,” said Gorelikov. “She tells me she is one of the restoration experts from Warsaw who arrived this morning. In the same group as the American.” This was trouble, undiluted, unmitigated danger. Dominika felt the ember of rage alight in her gut.
“You recall my proposal to let the American roam the compound freely so he would lead us to the mole?” said Anton. “That idea was vetoed, chiefly on your insistent recommendation, for very logical, very good reasons.” Gorelikov walked to the island and poured himself a glass of champagne. “I resolved to conduct my own modest experiment and follow this young woman who seemed to know the American. A coincidence? The other Poles stayed in the dormitory drinking complimentary vodka. Except Ms. Krawcyk, who walked for some time through the compound on a most circuitous route. And she ends up here at midnight, after the president’s visit, and now we’re all drinking champagne out of a crystal chalice.” That word. They stood looking at each other. The pistol was in the kitchen drawer, a step away. It was unlikely that Anton was armed. Not his style. Dominika knew this was the end, unless she was prepared to react violently to eliminate the threat. Whatever scaly beast lived inside her, it crouched at the entrance to the cave, talons gripping the dirt, ready to spring.
It was Gorelikov who broke the silence, looking at Dominika. His voice was calm, his face pacific. “I suppose it is the nature of espionage that the more monstrous the betrayal, the more effective the operation. You enjoyed the confidence of your peers, the Kremlin, and the president. What is more, I trusted you. Imagine the irony. You are Director of the SVR, reporting to the Americans, even as we influence events to place MAGNIT as DCIA.” He put down his glass and smoothed his hair. “Where does that leave us? What shall we do to resolve—”
Both women moved simultaneously, instinctively. Agnes lunged forward and hit Gorelikov extremely hard with a hammer fist on the side of the neck beneath the ear, overloading the vagus nerve, disrupting heart-rate and blood-pressure signals to the brain, and causing him to wobble and go down on one knee. Without thinking, Dominika circled behind him, and with nothing else at hand, unclasped the president’s South Sea pearls and wound the strand around Anton’s neck in the counterclockwise Sicilian garrotter’s loop, which puts the hands behind the target pushing crosswise—exerting a more powerful constriction than pulling the hands wide apart—a technique taught during Spetsnaz Systema training. Gorelikov started struggling, fell back to the floor, reaching behind his head, scrabbling for Dominika’s eyes, until Agnes flung herself at him, held his wrists, then lay across Gorelikov’s legs so he couldn’t kick. He was thin and light and Agnes controlled him easily. Through his increasingly constricted throat he repeatedly rasped, “Don’t!”
Dominika expected the necklace strand to break, scattering the priceless pearls across the terrazzo, but whatever had been used to string them together must have been unbreakable, wire or monofilament rather than the traditional silk thread, and her vision tunneled as she went a little crazy, leaned back, put her knee behind his neck, and kept applying torque. At least the big pearls were easy to grasp, and the frail Gorelikov was not exceptionally strong. As she strangled him, she heard herself whispering to Anton that Russia was not the Kremlin’s private preserve, that the Rodina belonged to the Russians, not the jackals who fed on the carcass, which struck her as sounding like an early manifesto of Lenin’s, but she was out of her mind with panicked bloodlust. She didn’t know if he heard her over his air-starved grunts. As she whispered to him, Agnes looked at her openmouthed.
Agnes held Anton’s wrists and rode out the last paroxysm of his thrashing legs, and he was still, but they didn’t move for another five minutes, tense. They knew he was gone when his trousers showed wet and a pool of urine spread on the floor under him. Agnes was soaked too, but didn’t say a word as she got to her feet, with wild hair. They both looked at Gorelikov, both panting like murderous ancient queens, Clytemnestra and Electra contemplating crimson bathwater. Dominika saw that Agnes’s halo was bleached and faded. Anton’s corpse was wet from waist to knee, his eyes were open, his neck was bruised purple, and his halo was gone. Interesting. Dominika wondered if she eventually would feel remorse—Gorelikov had, after all, befriended and supported her in the Kremlin—for she felt none now. The elegant boulevardier would have had her executed without hesitation.