Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

“I am working through several contacts,” said Egorov. “The Greeks are furious.”

Putin held up his hand. “The Greeks are incapable of such outrage, they’re puffed-up little birds,” said Putin. “We will show them Kuzka’s mother.” In other words, he’ll bury them, thought Egorov, right after he finishes with me.

“The Americans are behind the Greeks; they control everything,” said Putin, moving to a bench machine with stainless handles. “They will try to direct this to their advantage, to discredit Russia, to embarrass me .” There it was, the ultimate transgression. Egorov refrained from replying. Zyuganov squirmed in his seat. Putin lay back on the bench and began pressing the handles above his head. A weight stack behind his head rose and fell as he pumped.

“Egorova is a hero,” Putin said, the clanking plates echoing in the massive room. “I’m not interested in the details, or in the difference between tradecraft mistakes on the street and bureaucratic bungling in Yasenevo.

“I…” clank,

“want…” clank,

“her…” clank,

“back.” Clank.

Vanya Egorov heard the clanking weight stack in his head, like Satan’s bilge pump, all the way back to Moscow.

In the backseat of a separate, less luxurious car, also speeding back to Moscow, Zyuganov knew he had a narrow opportunity to cement his standing. He assessed that Egorov was hours away from being cashiered, purged, perhaps jailed. Putin would not reinstate him, regardless of the outcome with Egorova. There were too many failures, too many mistakes. If he, Zyuganov, could retrieve Egorova, promotion and rewards would cascade around his head. He could never have guessed that the CIA would be calling him to discuss that very thing.

PASTA ALLA MOLLICA (ANCHOVY SALSA)

Toast bread crumbs until the “color of a monk’s tunic.” In a separate pan, sauté anchovy fillets in oil until they dissolve into a paste; add sliced onions, garlic, and red pepper flakes and continue cooking until onions brown. Toss cooked, drained spaghetti into pan with anchovy-onion salsa, add parsley and lemon juice, and mix well. Sprinkle with bread crumbs and serve.

After her arrest,Dominika had been quietly turned over to Forsyth by the Greek police and had been moved to a new safe house in the beach town of Glyfada. On a windy, rainy afternoon Benford and Forsyth told her that there were “indications” almost certainly confirming the arrest of General Korchnoi by the FSB. She had set her face, emotionless. Another loss.

“We lived with the possibility it could happen,” said Benford.

“But why now?” said Dominika. “We would have worked together. How did this happen?” Benford noticed that her concern was only for Korchnoi. She was not thinking about herself.

“We’re not sure,” said Benford. “After the loss of the US mole, Line KR has been looking for the leak. It could have been a mistake he made.”

Dominika shook her head.

“After fourteen years? I do not think so. He was too good.” Forsyth studiously did not look at Benford. Forsyth’s blue mantle was paler today, perhaps he was tired. In contrast, Benford exuded an inky blue. He is working, thinking, plotting, she thought. Dominika knew something was not right.

Benford looked at his hands when he spoke. “You know, Dominika, Volodya had great admiration for you.” Dominika watched him carefully, how he held his hands. He definitely was working.

“I believe he envisioned you as his replacement, to continue this work. We thought we had two years, perhaps three, to build this together. We could not have known. So now it falls to you, sooner than we want, but it falls to you, nonetheless.” Dominika turned to Forsyth, who reached out to pat her hand, but she moved it slightly out of his reach. There was a lot of blue fog in this room, she thought.

“I am heartbroken over the arrest of the general. I will never forget him,” said Dominika slowly. “But you are direct, Gospodin Benford. With him gone, you are telling me that it is otvetstvennost, how do you say it, my responsibility, to continue the struggle. That’s it, isn’t it? It remains only for me to decide whether I will continue working.” She stopped and looked at them, reading their faces. “ Gospodin Forsyth. What do you and Bratok think?”

“I would tell you exactly what Marty Gable told you,” said Forsyth. “Follow your heart, do what you believe.” Benford looked over at him, mouth pursing in annoyance. Forsyth could have been a little goddamned more persuasive.

“Your reasons to join us were complicated,” said Forsyth, who knew what he was doing, to whom he was speaking. “Friendship with Nate, your despair over the disappearance of your friend, being undervalued and mistreated by your own Service. Having control of your life and career. Nothing about that has changed, right?”

“You should be a college professor,” said Dominika, watching him waltz.

“We don’t want to overwhelm you,” said Forsyth.

“Yes, we do.” Benford laughed. “Damn it, Domi, we need you.” Inky blue like the tail fan of a peacock.

She looked at the bandage on her leg. “I am not sure I can agree,” she said. “I must consider it.”

“We know you will,” said Forsyth. “If you do agree, the most important thing will be to get you back to Moscow quickly, securely. And that’s why we three are the only ones who know where you are.”

“Not even Nathaniel?” Dominika said.

“I’m afraid not,” said Benford, his color unchanged. At least he’s telling the truth, thought Dominika.

Awake early, Dominika stood barefoot in the spacious living room of the safe house. The triple doors were folded back, opening the whole room to the wide, marble-floored balcony over which stretched a blue canvas awning that lightly billowed and popped in the last puffs of the onshore sea breeze. Across the Glyfada coast road, the Aegean sparkled in the morning light of a sun still low on the horizon. Dominika felt the warmth building on the marble floor. She was wearing a belted cotton bathrobe and her hair was a tousled mess. A clean bandage was tight around her thigh. Gable had gone out for bread.

She jumped at the soft knock and stood to one side of the door and waved a folded newspaper across the peephole, waited, then looked out. Nate, standing in the hallway, looking down. Dominika turned the locks, opened the door. Leaning against a cane, Nate limped straight into the center of the room. She turned and went up to him, snaked her arms around his neck, and kissed him. She hadn’t seen him since the first safe house, after she held the IV bag above his head in Gable’s car. She had sat with him the first night, but then he was gone.

“Where have you been?” she said, pulling his hair. “I have been asking about you.” She looked in shock at his purple face, which blended with his florid halo. “You saved my life, it was my stupid mistake, I made you come to my hotel room.” She kissed him again. “How are you? Let me see your hand.” She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed the back of it. “Why haven’t you come to me?” He stepped back from her.

“Were you ever going to tell me about this safe house?” said Nate woodenly. “Were you going to let me know where you were?” His words came at her, each one a deep-purple disc in the air. It was as if she could feel them hitting her body. She moved out to the balcony.

“Yes, of course,” said Dominika, “after a few days. Benford asked me to stay quiet for two or three days. To let things calm.” She leaned against the railing. Nate followed and leaned against the doorjamb. His purple cloud pulsed as if someone were flicking a light switch on and off. Nate’s hands were shaking and he put them in his pockets.