Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Matorin got his nickname that day from his men, at least the ones who could continue watching him use his knife. “Khyber” looked down at Dominika with his poached-egg eye, took his hand off her foot, and said, “Get dressed.” She had an appointment with Uncle Vanya.

USTINOV’S RUSTIC PÂTÉ

Caramelize chicken livers, pancetta, and garlic, then deglaze pan with brandy. Hand-chop mixture with parsley, capers, shallots, lemon zest, lemon juice, and olive oil into a coarse texture. Add additional olive oil. Serve on toast with lemon.

After the murderof Ustinov, Uncle Vanya had summoned Dominika to Yasenevo. She was escorted to the executive elevator bank of SVR headquarters. The SVR shield of Star and Globe hung inside the elevator. Dominika still had a copper taste in her mouth, still felt the slippery sensation of Ustinov’s blood on her body. For a week she fought down the recurring horror, tried vainly to sleep, resisted the crawly impulse to physically slough the skin off her breasts and belly. The nightmares had faded, but now she was sick, and depressed, and livid at the way she had been manipulated. Then Uncle Vanya had sent for her.

She had never been to Yasenevo, inside SVR headquarters, much less on the executive fourth floor. It was deathly still; no sound came from any of the closed doors visible down the corridors. She was walked past airbrushed official portraits—each one discretely spotlighted—of former KGB directors lining one side of the long, red-carpeted hallway that led from the elevator to the executive suite: Andropov, Fedorchuk, Chebrikov, Kryuchkov. Berlin, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Afghanistan. On the opposite wall hung the portraits of the new leadership of SVR: Primakov, Trubnikov, Lebedev, Fradkov. Chechnya, Georgia, Ukraine. Were they all in heaven or hell? The old boys’ eyes followed her as she walked down the hall.

To the right were the imposing doors of the Director’s office. To the left, identical doors led to the First Deputy Director’s office. Dominika was shown in. Uncle Vanya sat behind a large desk of polished, light-colored wood. A heavy piece of glass covered the top of the desk. Apart from a red leather blotter in front of him, the desk was clean. A bank of white telephones squatted on a credenza behind the desk. The large office, carpeted in a deep blue, had a comfortable couch and chairs at the opposite end, next to three picture windows that had a magnificent view of the pine forest. It was a brilliant winter day and sunlight streamed into the office.

Vanya motioned Dominika to take a seat. He looked at her closely. She was wearing a dark blue skirt and crisp white shirt nipped at the waist by a narrow black belt. She looked as beautiful as ever, but she had dark circles under her eyes and was noticeably pale. Using her on the Ustinov thing had been an inspired move. Too bad the experience for her had been so… extreme. It was her bad luck that the urgent order from the Kremlin to settle Ustinov’s hash had coincided with her departure from ballet school and her father’s death.

Neither of them spoke. According to the report, she had performed creditably, had charmed the pants off Ustinov, so much so that he had dismissed his security detail and thus given Matorin the opening to get to the target. Even though she had not had hysterics, he gathered it had been a little rough for her. Matorin was a bit much for the uninitiated. She would get over all that.

“Dominika, I commend you on your excellent performance in the recent operation,” said Vanya. He looked evenly at his niece from across the desk. “I know it must have been difficult, a shock.” He leaned forward. “It’s over now, you can forget the unpleasantness. Of course, I don’t have to tell you about your duty, your responsibility, never to mention this to anyone, ever.”

Her mother had told her to always be careful around him, but she was wound up. Throat tightening, Dominika looked at the yellow haze around him. Her voice quavered. “You say ‘unpleasantness.’ I watched a man murdered a foot from my face. We were naked, he was on top of me, as you well know. I was covered in his blood, my hair was matted with it. I can still smell it.” She saw her uncle’s eyes and felt his unease. Be careful, she thought, there was an undercurrent of anger there too. Her voice soft again: “Just a little favor, a simple matter, you said, I’d be helping you out.” She smiled. “He must have really done something, that you had to kill him.”

Damned impertinence. Vanya was not about to discuss politics, nor Putin’s toxic narcissism, nor the necessity of making an example of Ustinov for the benefit of the other kulaks. No, he had summoned his niece for two reasons. He wanted to assess her state of mind, to judge whether she could keep her mouth shut, whether she could put the incident behind her, recover from her trauma. And depending on the answer to the first question, he would have to consider two further options.

If Dominika rose from her chair, unhinged and refusing to listen, she could not leave the headquarters building alive. Matorin would solve the problem. Dominika might not realize it, but she was an eyewitness to a political assassination that Putin’s enemies would love to document for the world. If that happened, he, Egorov, would be forfeit. Right now certain State organs were covering Ustinov’s death as a grisly murder at the hands of a business rival. Everyone knew the truth; this had been expected. But if his twenty-five-year-old niece with Fabergé-blue eyes and a 95C bosom subsequently stood up and told what she had seen, and from what vantage point, the opposition press would never stop.

If, however, she seemed under control, he would take steps to ensure her continued discretion. His political well-being hinged on her future good behavior. He had already decided that he would accomplish this by bringing her inside, into the Service, under the permanent discipline and supervision of the Center. There would be no difficulty doing so. A job in records, in the archives. She would be accounted for, engaged in training, learning procedures and regulations. They could keep an eye on her. Depending on her performance—he did not expect much—she could be given a clerical job in one of the departments, an ornament in the outer office of some general. Later, perhaps, she could be assigned abroad, buried in a rezidentura in Africa or Latin America. After five years—by that time the directorship would be his—she could even be cashiered for cause and kicked out.

Vanya spoke softly. “Niece, it is your duty to be always loyal, to do your utmost, to serve your country. There is no question of your discretion. It is absolutely required of you. Is this going to be a problem between us?” Vanya looked at Dominika steadily as he knocked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

It was the exact moment where the next part of her life would be decided. The usual yellow halo around Vanya’s head had grown darker, as if suffused with blood, and the timbre of his voice had changed, taken on an edge. In a telepathic flash Dominika realized it, remembered her mother’s whispers. Zaledenet, she thought, summoning control. Become ice. She looked up at her uncle, whom she was beginning to detest, and also beginning to fear. Their eyes met.

“You can depend on my discretion,” she said woodenly.

“I knew I could,” said Vanya. She was a smart girl, he could see her instincts at play, she had sense. Now to put a cube of sugar on the teaspoon. “And because you have performed so well, I have a proposal.” He leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. “I am offering you a starting position as a staff member of the Service. I want you to join me in our work here.”