Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

This was not a honey trap against a hapless European on her home turf, Dominika told herself. This was an operation in the foreign field against a foreign intelligence officer. She was Center-trained, she knew she would have to reel him in carefully. She had filed an initial contact report to Yasenevo, detailing the first few contacts. Volontov was pressing for forward movement.

A couple of weeks, no response from Langley on the trace cable. Typical, but who cares? thought Nate. It was enough to meet her occasionally and drink in that face. He had gotten her to smile twice, her English was good enough to get a joke. He wasn’t going to spout off in Russian and scare her.

One evening, as they finished swimming, they turned to climb the ladder to get out of the pool. They bumped into each other. Her suit clung to her curves. Nate could see her heartbeat beneath the drum skin of spandex. He offered Dominika his hand climbing up the ladder. Her hand was strong, hot to the touch. He held it for a beat and let go. Face impassive, no reaction. He held her eyes for another beat. She took off her swim cap and shook her hair.

Dominika knew he was looking at her, kept calm, distant. What would he say if he knew she had been trained as a Sparrow, if he knew what she had done with Delon and Ustinov? She would not, absolutely not, seduce him. She would hear the cackles all the way from Moscow. No, she was going to accomplish this with discipline, with cleverness. Move it forward, she thought. Time to start opening the human envelope, to shake up that frustratingly consistent purple mantle.

Dominika said yes to Nate’s suggestion that evening that they stop for a glass of wine in a neighborhood bar. His face had lit up with surprise, then pleasure. Seeing each other in street clothes on the sidewalk seemed strange. Dominika sat firmly on the other side of the little table, nursing a glass of wine.

Now elicitation: Where are you from in the United States? Do you have brothers and sisters? What does your family do? She was going down the list, filling in the blanks in his papka .

If Nate didn’t know better, this would have sounded like a debriefing. Maybe she’s just nervous, deflecting questions about herself. When Russians aren’t being intense, he thought, they’re being obtuse. Well, let her relax. He was not going to spook her by going in too hard. Spook her from what? he asked himself. She wasn’t a target and he wasn’t going to bed her.

He ordered black bread and cheese. Very clever, she thought, he thinks that’s all we Russians eat. A second glass of wine? No, thank you. It was Dominika who finally said she had to go home. Nate asked if he could walk her home. At the front door to her small, modern apartment block, she saw him wrestle with the enormousness of leaning in for a peck on the cheek, she watched him trying to decide—men are all alike—then gave him her hand, shook his once firmly, and went inside. Through the glass door she saw him turn away, hands in his pockets.

The trained SVR intelligence officer, graduate of Sparrow School and the AVR, congratulated herself on a good evening, good progress, especially how she had cut him off from that kiss. Then she laughed. Some courtesan you are, she thought, the slayer of gangsters, the seducer of diplomats, and now otkazatsya, denying a good-night kiss.

“Hey, Romeo,” said Forsyth, leaning into Nate’s small office in the Station, “did you see the incoming from Headquarters this morning on Esther Williams?” Forsyth was referring to the results of the name-trace request Nate had cabled in on Dominika Egorova; DPOB: 1989, Moscow; Occ: Administrative assistant, Russian Embassy. He had drafted the cable more than a month ago. Nate expected that there would be “No Hqs traces” on the woman, she wasn’t even on the local dip list. She had told Nate she held a junior admin rank, the absolute bottom. The rest of Nate’s cable vaguely outlined the contact based on aperiodic meetings at the swimming pool. Totally useless, no access, no potential.

“No, I haven’t seen the cable,” said Nate. “Is it on the reading board?”

“Here’s my copy,” said Forsyth. “Take a look at this.” Forsyth chuckled as he handed the cable to Nate. As Nate started reading, Gable appeared behind Forsyth.

“Has Tommy Fuckfaster read the traces?” said Gable. He too was laughing. Nate didn’t look up and continued reading:

1. Traces on subject ref indicate confirmed status as SVR Corporal in possibly Directorate I (Computer and Information Dissemination). Approximate SVR EOD date 2007–08. Graduate of Foreign Intelligence Academy (AVR), 2010. Probable family connection to SVR First Deputy Director Ivan (Vanya) Dimitrevich EGOROV. Subject posting to Finland not reflected in Russian Federation Foreign Ministry lists, suggesting TDY status and/or specific operational assignment of limited duration.

2. Headquarters Comment: Reference contact is of interest to Hqs. Subject’s family tie to SVR leadership arguably provides her with unique access and represents an opportunity for significant recruitment.

3. Applaud Station diligence in aggressive spotting and developmental activity. Encourage Station officer to pursue subject for additional assessment and development. Hqs standing by to support Station ops plan as required. Regards.

Nate looked up from the cable at Forsyth and Gable. “You can’t get a better trace response than that,” said Forsyth. “This could work out to something big if you can take it all the way to recruitment.”

Nate could feel cement filling his legs. “This feels wrong, Tom; she’s not plugged in, she’s too junior. Remains to be seen whether she’s recruitable. There’s something distant and closed up about her.” He looked at the cable again. “Women haven’t been allowed into the Academy for the last fifty years. I could waste six months trying to develop her for nothing. I think I should concentrate elsewhere.”

Gable leaned farther into the room past Forsyth’s shoulder. “That’s right, think it all through.” He laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? A knockout like that, plus a close relative to someone on the top floor of the SVR? You better check it out, good and hard. Never mind going after someone else. This is a fucking ripe plum just waiting to get plucked.”

“I get it, I get it,” said Nate. “It’s just that she doesn’t seem like the type who’s an SVR operator. Dour and scared, at least that’s my assessment.” He shrugged and looked at the other two.

“Well, assess away, kiddo. You got yourself a solid developmental prospect,” said Gable as he left the office. “Let’s talk ops plan when you’re ready,” he said over his shoulder. Forsyth turned to leave, gave Nate a wink.

Nate looked at Forsyth and nodded. Okay, let’s see where this goes, he told himself. A waste of time. C’mon, get motivated. From right now, Dominika Egorova was something more than a beautiful face. She was his development target.

Up the road from the US Embassy, in the Russian Embassy, Rezident Volontov was haranguing Dominika on the slow progress of her operation.

“Corporal Egorova, you have made a good start, but your progress has been too slow. General Egorov has sent three requests for updates since you arrived. You must redouble your efforts to move your friendship with Nash forward. More frequent meetings. Ski trips. Weekend trips. Be inventive. General Egorov once again recommends that you cultivate in Nash an emotional dependency on you.” Volontov sat back in his chair and ran greasy fingers through pomaded hair.

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Dominika. Her uncle, Simyonov, and now this smelly throwback. “Can you tell me, please, what Director Egorov means by ‘emotional dependency’?” Her level gaze dared him to suggest she seduce the American.