Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

That was just the positive intelligence from MARBLE. The most explosive item was a hint MARBLE had picked up that there was a “Director’s Case” being run out of the fourth floor of Yasenevo, an asset in the pay of Russia so important and so sensitive that SVR leadership were running the case exclusively. To CIA counterintelligence, this special handling could only mean a megamole. Some government, some country, had a big problem, was gravely penetrated, and they all looked at one another and wondered if it was in Washington. That intel tidbit was compartmented from the rest of MARBLE’s reporting and handled separately.

No one had to tell the old spook what to do about this. He told them what he would do. He knew how to pull the string with his fingertips, how to be the spider sitting on the web, waiting for the tremble of the radius threads. He would collect—softly, softly—more information when he could. Meanwhile, the words SVR mole, Director’s Case, and Yasenevo went on the office whiteboards of a dozen counterintelligence analysts in CIA headquarters. They were good at waiting, they would wait for months, even years, to fit more pieces into the mosaic.

The last evening, MARBLE told Nate that Anthony Trunk would within the next six months attend an economic conference in Rome as well as the UN General Assembly in New York, providing two future opportunities for MARBLE to travel out of Russia with plausible cover provided by the SVR’s pursuit of Trunk.

Headquarters was pleased with this round of MARBLE meetings and with Nate’s performance. A bonus was deposited in MARBLE’s secret fund account, and Nate was awarded a Quality Step Increase amounting to a salary bump of $153 per pay period, after taxes. “Wicked good,” said Gable when he heard about Nate’s QSI. “One hundred and fifty-three dollars. Just as long as they don’t fucking devalue your contribution. You realize you also get a voucher for six free car washes?”

At the end of the meeting series, before MARBLE returned to Moscow, Nate pushed gently about the general’s security. MARBLE rather nonchalantly acknowledged that since he and Nate had narrowly missed being rolled up on the snowy Moscow street that one night—it seemed like a hundred years ago—there was a serious mole hunt going on inside SVR headquarters in Yasenevo. His old comrade First Deputy Director Egorov was convinced someone senior in the Russian service was spying for the CIA. “In other words… me,” he said with a laugh. Nate’s concern showed on his face.

“Look,” said MARBLE, “I am used to the risk. I know how my Service works. I know how that zhulik, that old fraud Egorov, thinks and operates. There’s no cause for alarm.” He thought to himself about fourteen years as Langley’s agent, of wakeful nights listening to footfalls in the stairwell, or feeling the tightness in his chest when called back to Moscow “for consultations.” He remembered the inexpressible wave of relief on seeing a full conference room after being summoned to a meeting. Others before him had entered an empty meeting room with the ubijca, the thugs, waiting behind the door.

The old man humored his intense young handler, and they reviewed their contingency plans for the biggest high-wire act in denied-area operations. Exfiltration. Smuggling someone to freedom. From inside Moscow, under hot pursuit, with family or with the mistress, curled tight in a car trunk or brazening it through passport control. After forty minutes MARBLE held up his hand. “Nathaniel, enough for tonight, I think. You are very thorough.” Nate blushed in self-conscious embarrassment and they said good night.

Now MARBLE was safely home and Nate was pleased to read effusive praise from Headquarters for the secure and productive meeting series with the agent. A cable had characterized Nate’s reporting as “well received at the highest levels, ” cablese for the White House and the NSC.

Forsyth tapped him on the shoulder for a good job, and Gable bought him a beer. “All the kudos you’re getting, no one’s thinking about the agent,” said Gable. “It’s your responsibility never to forget him. You got that?”

The glow faded with Nate’s pressing problem. Dominika. Where was the case going? What did her admission that she worked for the rezident mean? If there wasn’t some progress soon, there would be complaints from Headquarters.

“Screw Headquarters,” said Gable, starting on another beer. “Just take it easy for a couple of weeks, bask in the glow of your recent scary-good performance, then we’ll decide what you can do next.”

Nate knew Gable well enough by now. “You really mean, Get out of this chair and hit the street before I kick you out the front door, don’t you?” said Nate.

“Yes, yes, in fact I do,” said Gable. “Go to the swimming pool. Find your SVR corporal. Bring her flowers. Tell her you were miserable without her, that you missed seeing her. Take her to dinner.”

“To tell you the truth, Marty, I did sort of miss seeing her,” said Nate, looking down at the carpet. He looked back up at Gable.

“Jesus wept,” said Gable, and walked out.

CAVIAR TORTE

Blend sautéed shallots, crème fraîche, and grated Neufchâtel cheese and pour mixture into a springform pan. Sprinkle with chopped boiled eggs. Spread a thin layer of small-gauge caviar (Ossetra or Sevruga) on top of torte and chill. Unmold and spread on blinis or toast points.

Marta conspired withDominika in little ways. She helped her pad attendance and work logs to show activity, and together they talked out how Dominika could write contact reports that showed hopeful progress, while at the same time being sufficiently anodyne not to rouse the sleeping bear in the Center. She wrote of pleasant but inconclusive sessions with the American at a museum, a lunch, a coffee, veiled references to his almost languid unresponsiveness. “It makes him sound horrid,” said Dominika, “and it makes me sound horrible too. We’ll be two old maids, you and I!”

“You think so?” said Marta, lighting a cigarette. “Perhaps we’ll be like the two girls buying sausages. The butcher has no change, so he gives them an extra sausage. ‘What are we going to do with the third sausage?’ whispers one girl. ‘Quiet,’ her friend says. ‘We’ll eat that one.’” Dominika started laughing.

Volontov was constantly hovering, feeling the pressure from Moscow and passing it downhill. He saw the obvious friendship between the two women, the aging former Sparrow and her young friend. And Egorova was clearly abetted by Yelenova. Yelenova’s already chronic lack of respect and compliance was increasing and becoming more apparent daily.

It was a stormy day with sheeting rain coming in waves from the south, from Estonia. Dominika was out of the embassy when Volontov called Marta into his office. Marta sat without being bidden, squared her shoulders. “You wanted to see me, Colonel?”

Volontov looked at Marta without speaking. His eyes traveled from her legs to her face. Marta looked him in the eye. “What is it you wish, Colonel?” Marta repeated.

“I have been noticing your close friendship with Corporal Egorova,” said Volontov. “You and she seem to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

“Is there anything wrong with that, Colonel?” asked Marta. She lit a cigarette, lifted her head, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

Volontov watched her like a farm boy. “What have you been saying to Egorova?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Colonel,” said Marta. “We go out for a glass of wine, we talk about family, travel, food.”