Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

“I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct,” said Dominika. Heads came up to look at her. What was this? An attitude? From an Academy graduate? From a Sparrow? Eyes swiveled toward Simyonov for his reaction. This was going to be good.

Simyonov slouched over the table, hands in front of him. Today he radiated a faint yellow glow. This man was not going to stand for any contradictions. His eyes were red and watery, his gray hair lay slack on his head.

“You are here, comrade,” he said, “to assist in the approach to the Frenchman. Matters of access, handling, and production will be the responsibility of the officers of this department.” He leaned a little farther forward and stared at Dominika. Heads swiveled back in her direction. Surely that would be the end of the discussion.

Dominika kept her hands clasped firmly on the file folders in front of her to keep them from trembling. “I’m sorry to contradict you, comrade, ” said Dominika, echoing his word, an anachronism. “But I was assigned to participate in this operation as an operations officer. I look forward to being included in all phases of the case.”

“An operations officer, you say?” said Simyonov. “A graduate of the Forest?”

“Yes,” said Dominika.

“When did you graduate?” he asked.

“The most recent class,” said Dominika.

“And since then?” Simyonov looked around the table expectantly.

“Specialized training.”

“What sort of specialized training?” asked Simyonov quietly.

She had prepared for this. Simyonov knew very well where she had been. He was trying to humiliate her. “I audited the basic course at the Kon Institute,” said Dominika, her lips tight against her teeth. She was not going to back down to these lichinki, these maggots. She cursed Uncle Vanya in the same breath.

“Ah, yes, Sparrow School,” said Simyonov. “And that, precisely, is why you are here. To participate in the entrapment of the target, Delon.” One of the men at the table nearly, but not quite, stifled a smirk.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” said Dominika, “I was assigned to this department as a full member of the team.”

“I see,” he said. “Have you read Delon’s papka ?”

“Both volumes,” said Dominika.

“Admirable,” he said. “What preliminary observations do you have about the case and its merits?” Smoke drifted to the ceiling as the room fell silent. Dominika looked at the faces appraising her.

She swallowed. “The issue of his access is critical. The target, Delon, in his capacity as a midlevel commercial officer, does not have access to classified material sufficient to justify a politically delicate chernota. ”

“And what do you know of blackmail?” Simyonov said evenly, slightly amused. “Just out of the Academy and all?”

“Delon himself is not worth the effort,” repeated Dominika.

“There are a number of analysts in Line R who would disagree with you,” said Simyonov, his tone hardening. “Delon has access to French and EU commercial data. Budget figures. Programs. Investment strategies, energy policies. You would throw this information away?”

Dominika shook her head. “Delon knows nothing that one of our low-grade assets in any of a half dozen French commercial or trade ministries in Paris could not provide directly. Surely that avenue would be a more efficient way to service general requirements?”

Simyonov, face hardening, sat back in his chair. “You apparently learned quite a lot at the Academy. So, you would propose that the department not validate the operation? That we disengage and do nothing against the target, Delon?”

“I say only that the potential risk of compromising a Western diplomat in Moscow is not justified by his low potential as a source.”

“Go back and read the file again, Corporal,” said Simyonov. “And come back when you have something constructive to add.” They all stared at Dominika as she rose from the table, collected the file, and walked the long length of the room to the door. She kept her back straight and focused on the door handle. She closed the door to muffled murmurs and chuckles.

The next morning Dominika arrived at her empty desk to find a plain white envelope in her spavined in-box. She carefully slit it open with a thumbnail and unfolded the single sheet of paper. Written in purple ink in a classic script was a single line:

Delon has a daughter. Follow your instincts. K.

The next day they were back around the table piled high with photographs and surveillance reports. The ashtrays were overflowing. Dominika walked to her place at the end of the conference table. The men ignored her. They were reviewing Delon’s profile, a smoke-polluted exercise conducted with disinterest and one eye on the wall clock. There were no primary colors from any of them. They walked through his habits and patterns, as described by the teams, arguing about places where they could engineer contact. Bored as usual, Simyonov looked up at Dominika. “Well, Corporal, do you have any ideas about contact points? Assuming you have reconsidered your earlier objections to the operation.”

Dominika kept her voice steady. “I have reread the file, Colonel,” she said, “and I still believe this man is not a valid target.” Heads around the table did not come up this time; the men kept their eyes on the papers in front of them. This vorobey was not long for the Fifth, they thought, possibly not long for the Service.

“Still you take this line? How interesting,” said Simyonov. “So we drop him, is that your recommendation?”

“I said no such thing,” said Dominika. “I believe we should indeed pursue him as a target, exploiting his lonely solitude.” She flipped open the cover of the file in front of her. “But the ultimate target, the end goal of the operation, should not be Delon himself.”

“What nonsense are you talking?” said Simyonov.

“It’s already in the file. I completed a bit of extra research,” said Dominika.

Simyonov looked around the table, then back at Dominika. “The case has been thoroughly researched already—”

“And discovered that Monsieur Delon has a daughter,” interrupted Dominika.

“And a wife in Paris, yes, we know all that!”

“And the daughter works in the French Ministry of Defense.”

“Unlikely,” fumed Simyonov. “The entire family was traced. The Paris rezidentura checked all local records.”

“Then it appears they missed something. She is twenty-five years old, unmarried, lives with her mother. Her name is Cécile,” said Dominika.

“This is preposterous,” said Simyonov.

“She was mentioned only once in the transcripts. I checked the foreign directories in Line R’s library,” said Dominika, flipping more pages in the file. “Cécile Denise Delon is listed in the Rue Saint-Dominique registry. That means the central registry at the Defense Ministry.” Dominika looked around the table at the faces staring at her. “That suggests, as far as I could determine, that she has access to classified defense bulletins distributed daily to the government. She is one of the custodians of planning documents for the French military. She likely handles the dissemination and storage of a wide variety of French military budget, readiness, and manpower reports.”

“Conjecture, at this point,” said Simyonov.

“We don’t know where the French store their nuclear secrets, but I wouldn’t be surprised—”

“There’s no need for idle speculation,” said Simyonov. The yellow fog around his head was growing, and getting darker too. Dominika knew that he was frustrated, angry, calculating, and she knew that her defiance and insubordination were already more than enough to have her cashiered from the Service.