Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Dominika kept her voice level as her eyes never left her uncle’s. “This is why the Service is struggling to exist. This is why Russia cannot compete. Attitudes like this. Officers like Simyonov. They are krovopiytsy, attached to the belly, sucking blood, impossible to remove.” There was silence in the room as they stared at each other. Zyuganov watched her face; his hands did not move on the arms of his chair.

“What am I to do with you, niece?” said Vanya finally, getting up from his desk and walking to stand in front of the picture window. “Your record is strong, you should not jeopardize the career ahead of you. The manner in which you have spoken to me already is enough for your separation from the Service. Do you wish to continue your complaints?” And think about your mother, thought Dominika.

“And think about your mother,” said Vanya. “She needs your support.”

“I am taking advantage of our relationship, I know,” said Dominika. “But our work is too important to let it be done starinnyj, in the manner it has always been done.” She turned to watch her uncle at the window and knew two things. Vanya did not care about any of this, he had another agenda that involved her, and she had some latitude in her comments. She also knew Zyuganov was drinking her words in, she could feel him radiating like a furnace. He was a creature that was not content unless he had prey. She did not look at him.

Looking out the window, Vanya shook his head. Welcome to the modern SVR, he thought— improvements, reforms, public relations, and women in the Service. Junior officers could criticize the old ways. “So you do not like the old ways?” said Vanya.

“I do not like to fail at an operation that could have succeeded, whatever the reason,” said Dominika.

“And you believe you are ready to manage your own operation?” said Vanya softly.

“With guidance and advice from officers like you and General Korchnoi… and Colonel Zyuganov, of course,” said Dominika. She forced herself to include the little cadaver-lover sitting beside her. He turned his head toward her, jug-handle ears extended, and nodded.

“Most would say you are too young, too inexperienced, but we shall see.” Dominika noted the tone of Vanya’s voice, the honeyed phrase before the knout. “The nature of the assignment I have in mind unfortunately will take you out of the Americas Department.”

“What is the assignment?” she asked. She would scream if he told her she would have to seduce someone.

“It is a foreign assignment, to a rezidentura, to do real operational work. A recruitment operation.” Vanya’s own recollection of foreign operations was dim, but he spoke as if he relished it himself.

“A foreign assignment?” Dominika did not know what to say. She had never been out of Russia.

“To Scandinavia. I need someone new, fresh, with those instincts you have displayed,” he said. You mean with a man, she thought bitterly. He saw her eyes and put up his hand. “I don’t mean what you’re thinking. I need you as an operupolnomochenny, an operations officer.”

“That’s what I want to be,” said Dominika. “To be a member of the Service, to work for Russia.”

Zyuganov spoke, his voice mild and oily, the words coal-black. “And so you shall. This is a delicate task which will require great skill. One of the most difficult tasks. You must destroy an American CIA officer.”

From his office, Maxim Volontov, SVR rezident in the Russian Embassy in Helsinki, watched Dominika walk across the hall to return the dun-colored file to the file room for the evening. Since she had arrived in the rezidentura from Moscow, Dominika would check out the file each morning and take it to a work area to read, usually writing in a notebook, taking notes. At the end of each day she would return it to the file clerk per established rezidentura practice. Besides Volontov, Dominika was the only officer allowed to check out this particular file. It was a copy of the SVR papka on the American CIA officer Nathaniel Nash, transmitted from Yasenevo.

Volontov noted the dancer’s legs, the body beneath the tailored shirt. Volontov was fifty-five years old, warty and stout, with a silver-gray 1950s Soviet pompadour. He had one steel tooth in the back of his mouth, visible only when he smiled, which was never. His suit was dark, baggy, and shiny in places. If modern spies today are made of space-age composites, Volontov was still steel plates and rivets.

Dominika observed with interest the orange haze of deceit and careerism around his bullet head. Orange, different from the yellow-tinted walruses back home. But he had been around for many years, during the really difficult times in the KGB, and was a protean survivor. Those specific instincts told him to handle the niece of SVR First Deputy Director Egorov carefully, even though it rankled. Plus this young bombshell was here on a special assignment. A sensitive one. After a week of preparation, Dominika tonight was to attend her first diplomatic reception—National Day at the elegant Spanish Embassy—to see if she could spot the American Nash. Volontov would also be there, watching from across the room. It would be interesting to see how she would work the reception. Volontov’s diesel-fueled thoughts turned to the excellent hors d’oeuvres the Spaniards always served.

Dominika had been put in a temporary apartment in the old quarter of Helsinki hurriedly rented by the rezidentura per directions from Moscow, separated by design from the Russian Embassy community typically jammed into tiny apartments on the compound. Helsinki was a wonder. She had looked in amazement at the tidy streets, buildings with scalloped cornices, painted yellow and red and orange, and lacy curtains in the windows, even the shops.

In the comfortable little flat, Dominika got ready for Spanish National Day. She put on her makeup, slipped into her clothes. She brushed her hair; the brush handle felt hot in her hand. For that matter, she felt hot, ready for battle. Her little flat was awash in undulating bars of color: red, crimson, lavender; passion, excitement, challenge. She reviewed what she had been instructed by Volontov to accomplish with the American. This first night, establish contact; in the coming weeks, arrange a follow-up, then regularize encounters, develop bonds of friendship, build trust, uncover his patterns and movements. Get him talking.

She had been briefed in the Center. Before she left Moscow, Zyuganov had spoken to her briefly. “Corporal, have you any questions?” he asked. Without waiting for her reply, he continued. “You realize that this is not a recruitment operation, at least not in the classic sense. The primary goal is not foreign intelligence.” He licked his lips. Dominika kept quiet and kept still. “No,” said Zyuganov, “this is more a trap, a snare. All we require is an indication—active or passive, it doesn’t matter—when and how this American meets his agent. I will do the rest.” He looked at Dominika with his head tilted slightly. “Do you understand?” His voice grew silkier. “ Obdirat, I want you to flense the flesh from his bones. I leave it to you how to do it.” He locked on her eyes. Dominika was sure he knew she could see colors. His own eyes said, Read me, if you can. Dominika had thanked him for the instruction and had hurried away.

This Nash was a trained CIA officer. Even a single contact with him was going to require great care. But the difference was that this operation against the American was hers to manage now. It was hers . She put down the brush and gripped the edge of the vanity as she looked into the mirror.