Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Dominika smoothed the creased blue surveillance flimsies. They had used the mirror to watch a long-legged hooker slide her hand up Delon’s leg in a little escort bar off Krymskiy Val Ulitsa. Subject uncomfortable, nervous, refused (unable?) to pick up hooker, read the entry. Poor devil, he didn’t belong there, thought Dominika.

Technical annex: An audio implant in a living-room electrical outlet produced hours of tape: 2036:29, Sounds of dish in the sink. 2212:34, music softly played. 2301:47, retired for night .

They had spiked his phone from the central exchange to cover the weekly call to his wife in Paris. Dominika read the transcripts in French. Madame Delon was impatient and dismissive on one end, Delon small and silent on the other. A sexless, joyless marriage with an impatient woman, an unknown transcriber had written in the margin.

Sometime during the assessment process, the SVR had elbowed its way in and declared primacy over the FSB—it was a foreign case, not domestic. The second volume of the file began with an operational assessment, written in the abbreviated style of the semiliterate Soviet, the kind of writing they had mocked at the Academy. Subject potential for operational exploitation excellent. No identifiable vices. Sexually unfulfilled. Access to restricted information good. Assessed to be retiring and unaggressive. Susceptible to blackmail given lucrative marriage. And so on.

Dominika sat back and looked at the pages and thought about her Academy training. It was clear that this was a small case, with a small target, and with a small payout. Delon might be a lonely little man, vulnerable perhaps, but his access in his embassy was low-level. The Fifth didn’t have anything better than this, this navoz, this manure? Simyonov was building this up, inflating the case, it was clear. She had gone through the Academy, had endured whore school, only to find herself now among a different kind of prostitute? Was the entire Service like this?

She took the elevator to the cafeteria, took an apple, and went out onto the terrace in the sunshine. She sat away from the bench seats, on a low wall along a hedge, flicked off her shoes, closed her eyes, and felt the warmth of the bricks on her feet.

“May I join you?” said a voice, startling her. She opened her eyes and saw the tidy figure of General Korchnoi of the Americas Department standing before her. His suit coat was buttoned and he stood with his feet together, as if he were a maître d’. The sunlight made his purple halo deeper in color, almost with a discernible texture. Dominika jerked upright, fumbling with her flats, trying to get them back on. “Leave your shoes off, Corporal,” Korchnoi said with a laugh. “I wish I could take mine off and find a fish pond in which to dangle them.”

Dominika laughed. “Why don’t you? It feels wonderful.” Korchnoi looked at the blue eyes and the chestnut hair and the guileless face. What sort of provisional officer would make that outrageous suggestion to a general-grade officer? What kind of junior graduate would have the nerve? Then the head of the SVR Directorate responsible for all offensive intelligence operations in the Northern Hemisphere leaned down and pulled off his shoes and socks. They sat in the sun together.

“How is your work, Corporal?” asked Korchnoi, looking at the trees around the terrace.

“It is my first week. I have a desk and an in-box, and I’m reading the file.”

“Your first case file. How do you like it?”

“It’s interesting,” Dominika said, thinking about the general shabbiness of the file, the dubious conclusions, the spurious recommendations.

“You don’t sound entirely enthusiastic,” said Korchnoi.

“Oh, no, I am,” said Dominika.

“But… ?” said Korchnoi, turning toward her slightly. The sunlight cast a spidery shadow on his bushy eyebrows.

“I think I need time to become familiar with operational files,” said Dominika.

“Meaning what?” said Korchnoi. His manner was gentle, reassuring. Dominika felt comfortable speaking to him.

“After I read the file, I did not agree with the conclusion. I don’t see how they arrived at it.”

“What part don’t you agree with?”

“They are looking at a low-level target,” she said, consciously not giving too many details, mindful of security. “He is lonely, vulnerable, but I don’t think he is worth the effort. At the Forest they spoke often about squandering operational resources, about not chasing unprofitable targets.”

“There was a time,” said Korchnoi, testing her, “when women were excluded from the Academy. There was a time when it would have been unthinkable for a junior officer to read into an ongoing operation, much less comment on it.” He looked up at the midday sun and squinted. Royal purple.

“I’m sorry, General,” Dominika said mildly. She knew, was certain, that he was not angry. “It was not my intention to criticize, or to speak inappropriately.” She looked at him squinting up at the sun, quiet, waiting. She had an instinct to speak her mind to this man. “Forgive me, General, I meant only to comment that I think the case is weak. I cannot see how they arrived at the operational conclusions. I know I have scant experience, but anyone could see this.”

Korchnoi turned to look at Dominika—she was serene and confident. He chuckled. “You are supposed to read with a critical eye. And those idiots at the Academy are right. We have to be more efficient. The old days are over. We have difficulty forgetting that.”

“I did not mean to be disrespectful,” said Dominika. “I want to do a good job.”

“And you are right.” Korchnoi smiled. “Marshal your facts, order your arguments, and speak up. There will be disapproval, but keep on. I wish you luck.” He rose from the wall, holding his shoes and socks. “By the way, Corporal, what is the name of the target?” He saw her hesitate. “Just curious.” Dominika in a flash knew this was not the time to be a novice. If he didn’t already know the name, he could find out in ten seconds.

“Delon,” she said. “French Embassy.”

“Thank you.” And he turned, still holding his shoes and socks, and walked away down the path.

She expected nothing less, but the difficulties began during the daily planning sessions. Holding the two-volume file in her arms, Dominika entered the conference room and sat at the end of a faded table with three officers, all draped in browns and grays, from the Fifth Department (responsible for France, Benelux, Southern Europe, and Romania). She sensed the lack of energy in the room. There was no emotional output from these men, no imagination, no passion.

An enormous map of Eurasia covered an entire wall, several telephones were on a dusty credenza at the end of the room. The men stopped talking when she entered. Rumors were already circulating about the beautiful Sparrow School graduate. Dominika returned their stares, barely registering the hard faces, the question-mark smirks. Browns, grays, dingy colors from dingy minds. Cigarette butts filled the cheap aluminum ashtrays in the center of the table.

“Are there any preliminary comments?” asked Simyonov at the far end of the table. He was as expressionless and uninterested as he had been when Dominika first met him. He looked at the three faces around the table. No one spoke. He turned toward Dominika, daring her to speak. She took a breath.

“With the colonel’s permission, I would like to discuss the target’s access,” Dominika said. She could hear her heartbeat.

“We have assessed his access,” said Simyonov. His tone implied that Dominika was not to concern herself with the intricacies of the operation. “He is a worthwhile target. What is left now is to determine an approach,” he said, looking at the officer seated beside him.