Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

“How can he travel incognito?” asked Nate. “He was all over the news.”

“He’ll be in Copenhagen for the NATO thing,” added Forsyth. “How he’ll slip away from the Danes beats the hell out of me. Allen Dulles used to do this, Angleton too, get on a plane, not tell anyone, show up unannounced.”

“Yeah, in fucking 1951,” said Gable. “And those guys traveled solo, and you walked down the steps of the Constellation across the tarmac into a taxi, and checked into a hotel by signing the register. Those pillbox hats on the stewardesses, though…”

Forsyth ignored him. “I sent a polite no-thank-you response last night, and Chief Europe called me on the green line half an hour later and chewed my ass. Not a request. Director wants to get involved.”

“There’s another inflated balloon, fucking Chief Europe,” said Gable. “Thinks he’s a ship’s captain at Trafalgar. Ever read his Christmas benediction to the troops?”

Forsyth continued to ignore him. “We can control things only from the minute he gets off the plane. VIP gate, drive him around, dry-clean him, stash his security guys in a van downstairs, get him up there, shake her hand, then get him out. Just pray FAPSI—Russian SIGINT Service—doesn’t pick up his flight plan.” Forsyth looked at the cable again. “They must have briefed DIVA to him recently. Well, at least it’s good PR for the case.”

“PR? He’s going to get her killed,” said Nate. “It’d be safer for us to put her in a car trunk and run her over to Sweden for a long weekend. Why don’t we tell him she’s not available?”

“No,” said Forsyth.

“Tell him she refuses.”

“No. Get her primed, tell her to smile. Those blue eyes will do the rest. Let’s get some food up there, some drinks.”

“A bug-out car, parked close,” said Gable.

“What about Dominika?” asked Nate. “Who eats the shit sandwich if something goes wrong?”

“You do,” said Gable and Forsyth.

Footsteps on the landing, and the door opened and Dominika stood up as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency shrugged off his coat and came across the room and pumped her hand up and down, saying how glad he was to meet her, then pumped Nate’s hand too, told him he was doing a great job with this young lady, a beaming smile in her direction, and they both could be proud of what they were doing for the United States. Dominika tilted her head a little at that, and they sat down, Dominika and the Director on the couch, and he opened the charm spigot from his legislative days and he tapped her knee to make a point, and sometimes his hand stayed on her knee, a habit from the Senate cloakroom and the pages.

He was tall, and thin, and squirrel-eyed, with sunken cheeks and shiny hair dyed black. Dominika decided he looked like Koschei, the mythological evildoer her father used to read to her about when she was a little girl. Dominika looked hard at him, but his aura was faint, a pale green glow around his face and ears. Green, zelenyj, emotional, not what he appears to be, an actor, thought Dominika. So different from Uncle Vanya, but the same, different services, the same yashyeritsa, the same lizard.

He was asking Forsyth about the “operational ambient” in Scandinavia, and they all knew that was nothing to be discussing in front of an agent, so she got up and brought out a plate of pelmeni, steaming dumplings just fished out of the pot, stuffed with savory ground meat and spices, slathered with sour cream. Dominika had insisted on making something, a Russian way to honor the guest. Nate thought they should have served dry näkkileipä crackers and warm cream soda.

“Quite excellent,” said the Director, clotted sour cream at the corner of his mouth.

The Director wiped his lips and patted the cushion so Dominika would sit back down beside him. Nate and Gable and Forsyth sat in chairs close by, angled to watch Dominika, to give her support, while the Director asked where she was from, as if to check if she were a constituent. Gable thought of long ago and desperate late nights in stinking hotel rooms with sweating agents, little men running unspeakable risks, spinning up their nerve to go out again, intently listening to Gable speaking slowly and without pause, watching his face, pouring the vodka, or the maotai, or the arrack. That was long ago. Here, in the sun-splashed apartment, they were having a jolly old agent meeting.

For a Russian, talking about future success is inviting bad luck. Better to shut up about it. The Director moved closer to Dominika but she didn’t lean away. Good show, thought Nate, she would know how to handle that, wouldn’t she? The Director was saying that they all applauded her efforts, that he was taking a personal interest in her activities, and that she should not hesitate to contact him directly at any time of the day or night. Nate was tempted to ask for his home telephone number in Bethesda. Forsyth read his thoughts and scraped his chair to tell him to shut the fuck up.

Bottle-green and prattling, Director Koschei was saying something about a covert bank account. A sum of money had been put in the account for Dominika as a recruitment bonus, more money would be deposited each month . The account was completely under her control, but of course withdrawals and profligate spending were inadvisable. He continued that additional funds would be deposited when she began work in Moscow . Dominika looked up at Nate, and turned to look at Forsyth. Both their faces were expressionless. Koschei continued remorselessly.

At the end of two years’ internal service in Moscow, he droned, an additional bonus of a quarter million dollars would be deposited in her account. Finally, on the mutually agreed-upon date of her retirement from service, the CIA would resettle her in the West in a location selected with her security in mind and would provide her with a retirement home of not less than three thousand square feet .

The room was quiet. Dominika’s face had changed and she looked at each of them, then turned back to the visitor. She smiled her incandescent smile. Nate thought, Oh, fuck.

“Sir, thank you for coming such a long way to meet me,” said Dominika. “I have told Mr. Forsyth, and Mr. Gable, and Mr. Nash”—she gestured to each of them as she mentioned them—“that I am committed to helping your service any way I can. I am committed to trying to help my country, to help Russia. I appreciate all you have offered me. But please excuse me. I am not doing this for money.” She looked evenly at this nekulturny scarecrow.

“Oh, of course you’re not,” said Koschei, patting her knee. “Although we all realize how useful money can be.”

“Yes, sir, you are right,” said Dominika. Nate saw she was upset, there was a flush at her collarbones. Forsyth saw it too. Gable started gathering coats, moving around the room.

“Mr. Director, we unfortunately have to spend another half hour driving out of here before getting you back to the plane,” said Forsyth, getting to his feet.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Dominique. You’re a courageous woman running terrible risks.” Jesus, tell her how long she has to live, thought Nate.

“Remember,” the Director said, giving her a hug, his arm across her chest, “call me anytime in case of need.”

Yeah, so he can take you by the hand and lead you across the plowed strip at the border wire, between the bounding antipersonnel mines and two minutes ahead of the dogs, thought Gable.

Forsyth bundled Koschei into his coat and hat while Gable went downstairs to alert the security detail. The Director followed. Forsyth stopped at the door and winked. “Talk to you soon,” he said, and disappeared. Dominika and Nate stood in the doorway of the apartment like newlyweds saying good-bye to a grumpy uncle who had come to Sunday dinner.