“I for one remember it was you, a young case officer just expelled short-of-tour from Moscow by that damp squib Gondorf, who recruited DIVA. It was a signal achievement. She has developed into a source surpassing Cold War stars like Penkovsky and Polyakov, and even Korchnoi in the modern age.” Nate felt hot in the face; Benford never complimented anyone.
“All the more reason to preserve the case and protect her for as long as we can,” said Benford.
“And then get her out and resettle her somewhere safe,” said Nate.
“Perhaps,” said Benford, “if she at some time wants to defect. But she won’t. And unless she wants out, this Service runs her as long as we can, to preserve the intel stream until it stops.” Nate searched Benford’s face.
“You mean until she’s caught and executed,” said Nate flatly.
“Don’t be dramatic,” said Benford, sitting up and leaning forward. “We all do everything to protect her.”
“But we keep the intel flowing, is what you’re saying,” said Nate, “above all else, even her life, down to the last report.”
“If necessary, yes. To safeguard national security and to preserve the Republic, if you’ll forgive the fustian. It is what we do.”
“She committed to us. She’s risking her life for us,” said Nate, getting out of his chair. “I’ll huddle with Gable about everything, and get back to you with details.” He walked to the door, hand on the doorknob, when Benford spoke.
“Nash, we operate in a hostile fog bank, we deal with ambiguity, and if we must, we apply expedient amorality to accomplish moral goals. Embrace it or tell me what else you want to do with your life.”
GABLE’S SAFE-HOUSE CARBONARA
Sauté lardons of guanciale until chewy-crisp. Whisk egg yolks and grated pecorino Romano together to form a hard ball. Cook the pasta one minute less than al dente, then use pasta water to whisk egg-and-cheese ball until creamy. Toss cooked pasta with guanciale-and-egg mixture and serve immediately.
15
The Second Cold War
DIVA’s request that Nash participate in the second meeting with her North Korean nuclear recruitment did not please Benford, who wanted Gable to handle it. But Ricky Walters in Moscow reported that Dominika had insisted Nash specifically be there, which was only going to last a couple of hurried hours, the cottage being so close to IAEA Headquarters and the prying eyes of Noko security gorillas. Benford relented, reasoning they would not have time in two hours to squabble over exfiltration, much less be able to engage, in Gable’s words, in any “gasp-and-grunt.”
Nate flew direct to Copenhagen and took the two-hour flight to Vienna on Austrian Air, then booked a room at the Pension Domizil, half a block down Schulerstrasse from Dominika’s hotel. He left a note with his room number for her, and had breakfast in the curtained dining room. She walked in just as he was finishing. She was elegant in a black skirt, leather tunic with a narrow fur collar, and black-leather ankle boots. It had been three weeks since Greece and, as was usually the case between them, sweet absence dulled the acrimony over her determination to keep spying, despite the mounting dangers. She didn’t want any breakfast and looked at her Line T encrypted ops phone repeatedly for texts from Ioana, who was waiting at the cottage/safe house in case Professor Ri arrived before his scheduled 1200 meeting. They would have two hours with him, the entirety of an extended lunch break, which the five thousand pampered Euro bureaucrats working in the Vienna International Centre in Donaustadt, north of the river, were accustomed to. The complex of glittering Y-shaped buildings was permanent home to an alphabet soup of UN offices, from which phalanxes of international jacks-in-office churned out hectares of documents, all of which were without doubt critical to the continued survival of the planet: IAEA (atomic energy), UNIDO (industrial development), UNODC (drugs and crime), and UNOOSA (outer-space affairs).
Dominika checked her phone again, then leaned over the table, grabbed Nate’s sweater, and pulled him close to kiss him. “Our agent isn’t arriving for two hours, and it takes seven minutes to get there on the Number Eight tram,” she said, sitting back down. “I would therefore like to go upstairs to your room and bump bones.”
Her previous choler from the safe-house spat thankfully eclipsed, Nate relaxed and sat back. “We normally say ‘jump your bones’ to describe what you’re thinking.”
“Why?” said Dominika. “I would think ‘bumping’ describes what I’m thinking more accurately.”
Upstairs, Nate barely had time to hang the BITTE NICHT STöREN sign on the doorknob and close the door. Dominika’s leather-faced tunic squeaked as they made love, fully clothed, in an armchair, mouths plastered together and Dominika’s hair fallen down around her shoulders, tendrils stuck to her sweaty cheeks. A second round consisted of a frantic shedding of clothes, the yanking of the extravagant Austrian eiderdown off the bed, and the reinvention of what historians first called the missionary position, but without any of the original evangelical restraint.
They sat on separate seats across from each other on the tram, with trembling sewing-machine legs and flushed faces, trying not to look at each other. Dominika’s hair had been restored to order, but an errant strand hanging down one side of her face hinted at recent maidenly debauchery. Off the tram, they walked through the garden of the Arcotel, and on the footpath around the reedy Kaiserwasser Lake, and down the last stretch of Laberlweg, a leafy road that ran along a spit of land fronting the upper Danube, a placid branch of the river that rejoined the main river farther downstream. The houses were all cute two-room summer cottages with red or blue ornamental shutters and screened porches. The cottages had grassy front yards that ran down to the shore, each with a pontoon dock for summer canoes and skiffs, now bare and rocking gently in the slow-moving winter water.
It was just 1200 and Professor Ri would appear a few minutes from now. Nate would play a subordinate role during the debriefing, asking CIA intel requirements at appropriate times. Ioana would take a walk during the meeting, standard procedure, but also convenient in that Dominika wouldn’t have to explain who Nate was, at least not right away. Dominika had been toying with the idea of recruiting Ioana for CIA—she would adore Bratok, she knew—and the notion of a subagent, a confederate, helping her in this work was something she wanted to discuss with Benford. She was sure it would work, especially if Ioana graduated from Sparrow status to operations.
When she opened the cottage door she knew the world had caved in. The little living room was a mass of splintered furniture and fallen bookcases, including an overturned, blood-soaked armchair that had been slashed a dozen times, its stuffing scattered over the floor. The galley kitchen was ankle deep in broken plates and glasses. Nate silently motioned to the door, indicating that they should get the hell out, but Dominika shook her head and whispered “Ioana.” Stepping over detritus in the living room, they checked each of the tiny bedrooms. In one, Ioana’s clothes were strewn across the bed and a bedside lamp had been thrown in a corner and smashed. Dominika’s face was white.
They found Professor Ri facedown in the tub in the bathroom, remnants of the five liters of his blood slick along the tub walls, most of it already down the drain and likely feeding the Danube carp. They went back out into the living room, Dominika’s face a grim mask.