Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Benford sat on a couch under a potted linden tree in the atrium of the König von Ungarn Hotel in Vienna, in an angle of the Schulerstrasse behind St. Stephen’s. Benford had returned after an amusing half hour at the Bristol Hotel with the SVR’s Line KR chief, Alexei Zyuganov, who had appeared wearing an inexplicable felt snap-brim hat. He was accompanied by a dark-complected young man from the Russian Embassy. Over a glass of Polish vodka and a small plate of sweet-sour cucumbers, Zyuganov continued to profess ignorance of the bloodbath in Athens. He had refused to speak of Vladimir Korchnoi other than to repeat that he was guilty of treason. He insisted that Benford press the Greek government for the immediate release of Egorova to the Russian Embassy in Athens.

Benford with a straight face told Zyuganov that the Greeks were being obstreperous and were not only interrogating Egorova about the death of the former Spetsnaz officer in the Grande Bretagne Hotel, but also insisting that she participate in a press conference about all her activities in exchange for a lighter prison sentence. Zyuganov sat up straight and again insisted that Egorova be released, at which point Benford made his proposal. A half hour later a vibrating Alexei Zyuganov left the Bristol abruptly, without paying for his brandy. That’s all right, thought Benford. They’re paying for it more than they could imagine.

In his Kremlin office, the blue eyes blazed and the Cupid’s-bow mouth turned up a fraction. The politician in him instantly saw the benefit in the Americans’ proposal. The former KGB functionary in him appreciated the operational expediency. But the strongman bent on consolidating absolute power in his retooled Russian Empire would not accept second place, not even with these stakes. Zyuganov stood in the wood-paneled Kremlin office with head bowed as his president spoke softly into his ear, a paternal hand on the dwarf’s little shoulder.

BRISTOL HOTEL CUCUMBER SALAD

Peel and seed halved cucumbers and slice thinly. Finely chop red onion and one chili pepper. Mix in bowl with white cider vinegar, salt, pepper, sugar, dill weed, and a drop of sesame oil. Serve chilled.

Benford, Forsyth, andGable were in Athens Station. They sat at one end of a scarred conference table in the secure room—a thirty-foot Lucite trailer on Lucite legs inside a larger host room, under the harsh light of the fluorescent tubes arrayed on the top of the trailer. Their coffee mugs added fresh heat rings to the numerous old ones along the table. Nate was down the hall, in the infirmary, some stitches were coming out.

“It’s going to be quite a scene if DIVA doesn’t agree to return,” said Gable. “The Russians will be so pissed they’ll shoot MARBLE out of spite.” Benford put a satchel on the table and unclipped the clasps on the flap. He turned to Gable.

“You will be pleased to hear that you have just been elected to convince DIVA not to defect, but to return inside, and in harness,” said Benford. “Apart from our young superstar out there, she respects you the most. You are the only one she calls, what is it, bratwurst?”

“ Bratok, ” said Gable. “It means ‘brother.’”

“I see. Well, brother, she views me as having betrayed her, and by extension the entire CIA. For operational reasons we do not want to involve Nash too closely—besides, there is a fatal strain thanks to the ill-advised physical interaction between the two.” He looked at Forsyth and then pointedly at Gable. “That is why I am entrusting this infinitely delicate part of the operation to you,” said Benford. “ Bratok, get DIVA to agree.”

Benford opened the satchel and turned it upside down. Papers and glossy black-and-white photographs spilled onto the table. Forsyth stacked them and looked at each one in turn, then passed it over to Gable. The glossies showed a rural river, smooth and slow, with a slash of foam over a weir and above it a two-lane highway bridge on concrete abutments, light poles with curving arms along the railing. Castles on either side of the river, one with a square tower, the other crenellated and squat. Rude little houses along the river and sooty apartment blocks in the distance against a gray sky. Articulated trucks with canvas tops were stacked up in a line on the bridge.

“The Narva River Bridge,” said Benford, pointing at one of the photos. “On the right, Russia. On the left, the West, if that’s what you want to call Estonia.” He spun another photo around. “Control station. This crossing is quiet, mostly trucks, very slow. Petersburg is one hundred thirty klicks north.” Benford tapped the photo. “This is where she’ll cross.”

“Why are we doing this?” asked Gable. “The Greeks could escort her to the airport and put her on a plane. She would be home in three hours.” Benford studied one of the photographs, then finally answered.

“To use one of Forsyth’s unfortunate gambling metaphors, we have broken even, more or less. On one hand, thanks to MARBLE, we have neutralized a mole in Washington. On the other hand, we have sustained the grievous loss of MARBLE. In exchange, DIVA has, we hope, immensely advanced her standing. I might add,” he said, sipping his coffee, “that we were extremely lucky in that DIVA and Nash escaped mortal injury at the hands of that Spetsnaz assassin.

“For me, the one unsatisfactory aspect in all this is the ultimate price paid by a courageous old man. I tried to reason with him to continue as before, to avoid precipitate action, but he was adamant. He sensed his time was short.” Benford looked at the faces around the table, then began shuffling through the photos again.

“I refuse to let it go at that,” Benford said, lightly slapping the satchel on the table. “I want to address the one outstanding issue.”

“The one issue?” asked Forsyth.

“MARBLE. I intend to get him back. He’s earned his retirement,” said Benford. It was quiet in the bubble. The rush of forced air coming through the Lucite vent was the only sound in the room.

Gable shook his head. “There’s the small matter of his current status. Arrested Western spy,” he said. “There’s no work-release program in Lefortovo.” Forsyth stayed quiet; he saw what was coming.

“I believe the Center will be glad to exchange MARBLE,” said Benford.

“Exchange?” said Gable. “Who do you propose—”

“DIVA. They want her back badly enough to let MARBLE walk. It never would have happened with Stalin, or Andropov, but this is the new Russia. Putin is concerned about his image at home and abroad. DIVA knows a secret—several secrets—that would cause him a lot of trouble domestically.”

“The Russians will never agree,” said Gable. “They will never let MARBLE loose. They’ll be thinking about future traitors, loss of face, looking weak.”

“Actually, they already have agreed. Putin will have ordered the Center to make the deal.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Gable. “You made a deal with the Russians for a spy swap without knowing for certain whether DIVA will agree to return?”

“That is precisely why I am counting on you,” said Benford. “Besides, it is inconceivable that DIVA will continue to demur when she is told that a decision on her part not to return will effectively annul the release of MARBLE by the Russians.”

“Bitchin’ trump card,” said Gable. Benford looked up in annoyance. “That’s no way to motivate this woman to return to Moscow as our clandestine asset. I mean, if she resents us, resents our manipulation, she might simply pull the plug out of spite. It’ll be the last we hear from her.”