“And would it be overstepping my bounds to ask why in heaven we are helping the North Korean nuclear program?” said Dominika.
“Because I want to disorient the Chinese, and flatter that little dumpling in Pyongyang,” said President Vladimir Putin, entering the conference room from a side door. The usual blue suit, white shirt, aquamarine tie, and darting blue eyes complemented the well-known phlegmatic expression somewhere between a grin and a leer. Putin came around the table with his characteristic rolling sailor’s gait, which an obsequious Kremlin biographer had recently described as a KGB-taught fighter’s stride, but Dominika suspected was just a short man’s waddle. Without speaking, he sat opposite her and rested his hands on the table. His blue aura—intelligence, guile, calculation—was like a kokoshnik on his head, the traditional conical Russian headdress, half-tiara, and half-diadem.
“I would like you to meet the illegals officer in New York,” he said. Dominika had no doubt he had heard the conversation with Shlykov five minutes before.
The clairvoyant leader, the all-knowing tsar. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“I trust you to take the necessary precautions.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika.
“Take Blokhin with you as support,” Putin said.
Gorelikov stirred. “Mr. President,” he said, “a Spetsnaz trooper is not exactly what the operational situation—”
“Take him along, nonetheless,” said Putin. “Keep the major happy until he begins his other project.” Gorelikov kept quiet.
“And when you return,” said Putin to Dominika, “I want to discuss new initiatives in the SVR with you. The recent favorable results of the activniye meropriyatiya, our active measures in the United States tells me we should expand our capabilities in this area.”
“I will look forward to it,” said Dominika. Putin’s face softened as his eyes settled for an instant on the tight buttons of her tailored blouse under her navy suit. I’ll kill Benford if he asks me to do what melon head is thinking right now, she thought.
Dominika was used to men staring at her figure, and reveled in staring them down. But it was different with the leers of the president. They had a history of sorts. She shuddered as she remembered Putin’s late-night visit to her room years ago during the weekend at the palace outside Saint Petersburg. He wore red silk pajamas and walked in without knocking. Sitting upright in bed in her lacy nightgown, she had held the bedclothes up under her chin to cover herself, then remembered she had to captivate the tsar and lowered the sheet. She had dared to put her hand in his lap as he ran his fingers inside the full cups of her babydoll, to demonstrate her willingness, but her practiced (Sparrow) ministrations had, to her alarm, no immediate effect on him. The president had silently departed soon after, but the encounter hung over them, a preordained coupling sometime in the future, whenever the tsar would appear to claim his prize. And she would let him. She had to.
“Schastlivogo puti,” said the president. “Bon voyage.” He got up, nodded at Gorelikov, and exited by a separate side door that was opened by one of a score of werewolf aides who were always lurking. The door clicked shut, and Gorelikov sighed. Directing Putin’s one-man Sekretariat was a trial.
“I’ve ordered a light lunch,” he said. “Will you join me?”
They walked down the corridor to a small executive dining room and sat at a table. A waiter wheeled in a cart with a platter under a silver cover. “Sel’d pod Shuboy, herring under vegetable salad,” said Gorelikov, serving Dominika a plate. “I hope you like it.”
“It’s very good,” she said, thinking that the average young Russian probably never tasted such a delicacy.
Gorelikov chewed thoughtfully. “Too much mayonnaise,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I have much to tell you.”
“I will appreciate your guidance,” said Dominika.
“First, I must mention that the president applauds your service record. He is following your career with interest.” Unfortunately with an erection, thought Dominika.
“I predict he will promote you in the next trimester. The Directorship of SVR will follow, in my view.”
Gorelikov’s blue halo held steady, suggesting that he was telling the truth. “The president also likes Major Shlykov,” said Gorelikov. “Perhaps he admires how naglyy, how brazen he is.”
“Do we terminate Academician Ri in favor of the MAGNIT case?” said Dominika.
Gorelikov shrugged. “I agree that your case has merit, an invaluable look inside the Hermit Kingdom’s nuclear program. But I predict the president will tire of pitting the North Koreans against Beijing, and withdraw his support. We can decide later.”
“I am still not clear how one case threatens the other,” said Dominika. “Both streams of intelligence will be handled in compartments.”
Gorelikov observed how much ops sense this beauty had. He toyed with the notion of briefing her on MAGNIT, but decided it was too soon. He admired how she was not shy about pressing her point, even to a superior in the rarified air of the Kremlin. He strongly suspected she would be suitable for what he had in mind. “Shlykov believes the fact that the North Koreans are receiving railgun technology incontrovertibly reveals that an American source exists. If MAGNIT continues to move up, the case will eclipse all others and must be protected.”
“Is MAGNIT that good?” said Dominika. Last question, don’t press.
“The asset has the potential to be the best source in the history of our intelligence efforts against the Main Enemy,” said Gorelikov with a chuckle, “if you’ll excuse that old Soviet phrase—the Main Enemy—which, incidentally, is enjoying a resurgence in this building. You should keep that in mind.”
“I will,” said Dominika.
“Good. Now for politics,” said Gorelikov. “Beijing is agitating the region with those damn artificial islands in the South China Sea. They’re defying Washington; they’re annoying the president. Putin wants to distract the Chinese, insert himself between the Beijing politburo and Pyongyang, and shake up the cozy relationship that’s been unchallenged since the fifties.”
“But forgive me, I can see the merit in active measures to disrupt the relationship, but at the cost of letting them have the bomb?” asked Dominika. Gorelikov laughed.
“I know, I asked the same question,” said Gorelikov.
This man is a right-thinking adviser, thought Dominika, not a lickspittle. “It just seems like quite a risk,” said Dominika. “My experience with the Iranian nuclear program taught me that research and development can stall, then accelerate unpredictably.”
Gorelikov smiled at her. “Our work is fraught with risk,” he said. “You yourself run risks every day, don’t you?”
The familiar douche of icy alarm ran up Dominika’s spine, the ageless affliction of the clandestine agent who lives with the dangling dread of discovery every waking moment. What’s that supposed to mean? An innocent comment? A coy hint that she is somehow suspected? Nate would howl in distress and demand anew that she immediately defect.
“Your experiences with the Iranians were risky, your duel with the lamented Zyuganov was risky, the spy swap in Estonia was exceptionally risky,” said Gorelikov. “No, Dominika—may I call you Dominika? And you will call me Anton—you run risks with courage and resolve, which is why the president has his eye on you. And so do I.” A spiderweb trap? Or the start of a rare allegiance in a Kremlin where there are no allies?
“I value your support . . . Anton.”