Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

As the clandestine side of the operation expanded, Nate and Dominika continued their dilatory public contact for Volontov and the Center’s benefit. Dinners, trips to the country, concerts. Nate provided personal details about himself, something the Center could check independently, to illustrate how well Dominika was prying open the oyster. But as Forsyth predicted, Volontov wanted more and faster progress, so with Gable’s enthusiastic assistance Dominika drafted the much-anticipated contact cable reporting the beginning of a physical relationship with Nate, to buy more time. Gable wanted to write an “erectile dysfunction angle” into the script, arguing that would build in even more delay, but a red-faced Forsyth overruled him. Nate flipped Gable the bird.

Dominika commenced taking photographs of classified Russian documents from within the rezidentura using a variety of concealed cameras installed in purses, key fobs, lipsticks. She was discerning in photographing only the best documents, flexible enough to know when to wait. Gable praised her but Nate was perpetually worried and gloomy at the risks Dominika was taking.

One Sunday afternoon in the safe house, Dominika had heard enough. “Are you worried about me, or about this case and your reputation?” she asked. The room fell silent and Gable cleared his throat.

Nate turned slowly toward her, embarrassed and angry. “I’m intent about preserving the intelligence,” he said, and watched her face harden. “I just think you should slow down.”

“If that’s what you think,” said Gable, “you’re gonna love the next round.”

The cable from Headquarters ran five pages. They wanted her to insert a specially prepared thumb drive into a rezidentura computer, preferably the machine in the file room, but the one under Volontov’s desk would do. Fourteen seconds of downloading and Langley would be able to access the clear text behind all encrypted, “point-to-point” SVR cables, Yasenevo–Helsinki, transmitted over commercial telephone lines. Reading messages en claire was a lot easier than trying to crack ever-changing encryption algorithms. But this was the riskiest thing yet. Forsyth saw Nate’s face and told him to skip the meeting at the safe house. Gable would run her through it.

Two days later, Dominika pushed the wire trolley with the wobbly wheels loaded with files and burn bags and ledgers into the file room. Thank God she could hold on to the thing, because her legs were trembling. The file-room custodian looked up expectantly, a middle-aged man named Svets, who wore enormous glasses and a wide wool tie that came only to the middle of his belly. He looked forward to watching Egorova replace the files every evening at close of business, especially when she stretched to reach the higher safe drawers. His compound beetle eyes followed her as she horsed the trolley through the door.

She had practiced it in pantomime with Gable, he said don’t stop, make it flow. She caught the trolley on the corner of the clerk’s desk, let it go over, cascading paper across the floor, and Svets got up, all fussed, and she was on her knees beside his desk and there was the port with a winking green light, and she made sure the pins were the right side up and felt it go in, and started counting while she kept picking up paper, nine, ten, eleven, and Svets was straightening up and Dominika pointed to another file on the floor in the far corner, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, out came the thumb drive, and she was up on her feet, brushing her hair behind her ear, the piece of plastic in her skirt pocket thumping like the Tell-Tale Heart. She tidied the files and put them back in the drawers, and let him look at her on tiptoe, lifting one foot for effect.

Two hours till the end of the day and every eye seemed on her, every person seemed to know. Then the lobby and the impatient grumbling line of embassy employees stacked up at the double front doors, beside which was a table with two Volga boatmen behind it, embassy security with brown clouds around their heads, checking purses and pockets. Dear God, random bag check and I pick today. A rivulet of sweat went down her back, she could feel it all the way down, and she was caught in line, she couldn’t retreat back upstairs, they watched for that, and she held her coat close in front of her and slipped the thumb drive under the waistband of her skirt and down the front of her underwear. The security man reeked of vodka and his red eyes knew, had to know, she had the thing in her panties, but he stirred the contents of her purse and slid it to the end of the table and waved her through.

She told them about it that night, the adrenaline of the risk still hot in her belly, with Nate standing apart, in the door of the little kitchen, and Forsyth listening quietly with his glasses up on his forehead. Gable opened a longneck and tipped it back in one swallow. “I guess now we know why it’s called a thumb drive,” he said, and pushed past Nate and started making cheese fondue, for Christ’s sake. Dominika had never tasted it, didn’t know what it was, and when it was ready they sat around the table and dipped bread into the sharp, melted cheese, smelling the wine in it, and talked and laughed a little.

Forsyth and Gable left after dinner. Nate poured two glasses of wine and they walked into the living room. “What you did today was too risky. I should have never let you try it,” said Nate.

“It came out all right,” said Dominika, turning to face him. “We both know there are risks.”

“Some risks are acceptable, a few of them unavoidable, most are stupid.”

“Stupid? Glupyj? Don’t worry, Neyt,” said Dominika, “you won’t lose your star spy.” The word stupid had lit her fuse. His was already smoldering.

“It’s just that you should learn to get high on something other than adrenaline,” he said.

“You mean like wine?” she said, and threw the wineglass against the wall. “No, thank you, I prefer adrenaline.” The drip of liquid was the only sound in the room.

Nate crowded her, and grabbed her arms above the elbows. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed. They glared at each other, their faces inches apart.

“What is wrong with you ?” she said in a whisper. The room was out of focus for her. Nate was purple and hazy. She looked at his lips, daring him, willing him to come closer. Another second, and the moment disappeared into the slipstream. “Please let go of me,” she said, and he dropped her arms and she picked up her coat and without looking at him opened the door—taking the automatic, precautionary glances into the hallway and stairwell—then went out, closing it softly behind her.

Nate stared at the closed door, his tongue thick in his mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. Jesus, all he wanted was to keep the case running smoothly. All he wanted was to keep her safe. All he wanted…

GABLE’S CHEESE FONDUE

Reduce white wine and crushed garlic, add grated Gruyère and Emmentaler cheese, whisk over medium heat until melted. Stir in cornstarch slurry, more wine to taste, and reheat (do not boil) until fondue is creamy and thick. Serve with lightly toasted, cubed country bread.

Short-sleeve weather now,and Finns on the sidewalk waiting for the pedestrian light to change all had their faces turned to the sun, like sunflowers, eyes closed. The broad lawns and benches of Kaivopuisto were dotted with lunchtime secretaries sunbathing in their bras, chins up, drinking in the light.

The note was taped to his door, and Nate walked into Forsyth’s office and sat down. Gable was sitting on the couch. Forsyth handed him the short Headquarters cable announcing the availability of the new Director of the CIA, recently confirmed, to travel incognito from Copenhagen to Helsinki for six hours, for a controlled meet and greet with DIVA to express the Agency’s appreciation for her service so far. Nate looked up at Forsyth, and then over at Gable.