Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

“I am eager to learn more,” said Dominika.

“Suffice it to say that the operation is a recruitment approach to a foreign diplomat. It is of utmost importance that there be no razoblanchenie, no exposure, no unmasking of the hand of the Service. The diplomat must be compromised, thoroughly and without a misstep.” His voice had grown thin, serious. Dominika said nothing, waiting for him to continue. She couldn’t exactly see his words, they were indistinct and pale.

“Naturally, Colonel Simyonov expressed concern that your overall inexperience in operations, despite your excellent training record, could be a disadvantage. I assured him my niece ”—he hung on the word to indicate that he had exerted his influence—“was the perfect choice. He of course soon recognized the logic of using you, especially in light of the additional training I proposed.” Dominika waited. What office would they send her to? Technical measures? Language? Subject matter tutorial? Vanya lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “You have been enrolled in the specialized course at the Kon Institute.”

Dominika willed herself to remain still, expressionless, coldly feeling the physical blow that started in her stomach and radiated up her back. People had whispered about the institute during training: formerly State School Four, more commonly referred to as Sparrow School, where men and women were trained in the art of espionage seduction. You’re sending me to whore school, she thought.

“This is what they call Sparrow School?” she asked, controlling the quaver in her voice. “Uncle, I thought I would be entering the Service as an officer, to be assigned to a department, to begin practicing intelligence work. This is training for prostitutki, not staff officers.” She felt she could hardly breathe.

Vanya looked at her evenly. “You must look at this interval positively—this training will reveal to you other options when you begin managing operations on your own in the future.” He sat farther back on the couch.

“And the operation against the diplomat, do you intend that it should be a plovaya zapadnya, a honey trap?” She had read about the grimy sex operations while in the Academy.

“The target is zastenchivyj, timid, shy. We have assessed his vulnerabilities over many months. Colonel Simyonov agrees that he is susceptible.”

Dominika stiffened. “The colonel knows about what you want me to do, about Sparrow School ?” She shook her head. “He was staring at me across the table. He might as well have opened my mouth and checked my teeth.”

Vanya interrupted, his voice now a little edgy. “I’m sure he was very impressed, he is a veteran officer. And all operations are unique in their own ways. There has been no final decision made as yet on how to proceed. Nevertheless, this is an immense opportunity for you, Dominika.”

“I cannot do this,” Dominika said. “After the previous operation, how it ended, it took me months to forget Ustinov’s—”

“You’re bringing that up? Didn’t you remember my instructions to you to forget that episode, never to refer to it?” Vanya said. “I require absolute compliance in that regard.”

“I have never uttered a word,” Dominika snapped back. “It’s just that if this is another of those operations, I’d rather—”

“You’d rather? You are a graduate of the Academy and a junior officer in the Service now. You will obey orders, accept assignments given to you, and do your duty. You will defend the Rodina.”

“I am committed to serving Russia,” said Dominika. “It’s just that I object to being used in these sorts of operations… There are people who do this work regularly, I have heard about them. Why not use one of them?”

Vanya frowned. “Stop talking. Not another word. You don’t have the sense to see what I’m offering you. You’re thinking about yourself, about your childish preoccupations. As an SVR officer you have no preferences, no choices. You accomplish what you are told to do with excellence. If you choose not to accept, to allow your frantic prejudices to derail your career before it begins, tell me now. We will release you from the Service, close your file, cancel your pension, and withdraw your privileges— all of them .”

How many times will my mother’s neck be put into the noose? thought Dominika. What else would they make her do to let her serve with honor? Vanya saw her shoulders slump. “Very well,” she said, rising. “With your permission, may I go?”

Dominika got up and walked in front of the picture window toward the door, the sun highlighting her hair, framing her classic profile. Vanya watched her walk across the carpet—did she limp a little?—and stop briefly at the door to turn and look back at him. A shiver ran over his scalp as he saw the blue eyes, intense and unblinking, ripsaws and scalpels, fix on his face for three alarming seconds. Glowing like wolves’ eyes just beyond the lights of the bliznye, the dacha. He had never seen a look like that in his life. Before he could say anything else, she was gone, like a klikusha in the Krasny Bor Forest.

Blanche cabbage leaves, cook rice. Sauté chopped onions, carrots, and peeled and seeded tomatoes until soft, incorporate with the rice and ground beef. Fold cabbage leaves around two spoons of mixture to form large square envelopes. Fry in butter until brown, then simmer for one hour in stock, tomato sauce, and bay leaves. Serve with reduced sauce and sour cream.

Nate Nash arrivedat Helsinki-Vantaa Airport after a two-hour flight. The modern airport was sparkling and well-lit. Like at Sheremetyevo, there were flashy advertisements for cologne, watches, and vacation trips. Airport shops stocked with lingerie, gourmet food items, and magazines stretched down the airy terminal. But the lingering smell of cooked cabbage, rosewater cologne, and wet wool was missing. Instead, cinnamon buns were baking somewhere. As Nate collected his single suitcase, cleared customs, and headed to the taxi stand outside, he did not see a short man in a plain dark suit watching him from across the arrival hall. This man spoke briefly into a cell phone and turned away. In thirty minutes, nine hundred kilometers to the east, Vanya Egorov knew that Nash had arrived in Finland. The Game would begin.

The next morning, Nate walked into the office of Tom Forsyth, Chief of Station in Helsinki. Forsyth’s office was small but comfortable, with a single nautical painting hanging above his desk and a small couch against the opposite wall. A framed photo of a sailboat on a glassy ocean stood on a table beside the couch, with another framed photo of what appeared to be a youthful Forsyth at the wheel beside it. Shades in the office were drawn over a single window.

Forsyth was tall and lean, in his late forties, with receding gray hair and a strong chin. Intense brown eyes looked up at Nate over the top of half-moon glasses. Forsyth smiled, threw a sheaf of papers into an in-box, and got up to shake hands from across the desk. His handshake was firm and dry. “Nate Nash,” he said with a smooth voice. “Welcome to Station.” He gestured for Nate to sit in a leather chair in front of his desk.

“Thanks, Chief,” said Nate.

“You in an apartment? Where did the Embassy put you?” asked Forsyth. The Embassy housing office had that morning deposited him in a comfortable two-bedroom flat in Kruununhaka. Nate had been delighted when opening the double doors to a small balcony with a view of the marina, the ferry terminal, and the sea beyond, and he told Forsyth so.

“It’s a nice area, an easy walk to work,” said Forsyth. “I’d like you to huddle with me and Marty Gable to get an idea of what we’ve got going.” Gable was the Deputy Chief of Station, whom Nate had not met yet. “We’ve got a couple of good cases, but there’s more we can do.