Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Benford looked at Nate, then back at the beast on the floor. Nothing in his thirty years of mole-hunting, spy-catching, illegals-baiting was ever like this. Especially not when Jennifer suddenly sat straight back up like an unstoppable serial killer at a lakeside summer camp. She picked up the glass-and-wood-topped coffee table in front of the couch and threw it across the room at Benford standing on the bottom step of the staircase. Benford called upon some hidden burst of speed—perhaps held in reserve from his two years as equipment manager of the Princeton Varsity Heavy Eights in the late 1960s—and pounded back up the stairs just as the coffee table hit the very spot on which he had been standing, smashing wood and glass and knocking out two sturdy balusters. Benford did not stop moving up the stairs, and disappeared above the second-floor landing.

Jennifer turned back to Nate, who now stood in the middle of the living room. In the last seconds, he had moved a few steps and had taken the iron poker from its stand near the fireplace and was holding it by his side. Her ponytail swinging, Jennifer rushed at Nate again, her bare feet lightly slapping the wooden floor. Nate bizarrely remembered his hand-to-hand instructor’s name was Carl, took a half step forward, snapped his wrist, and hit Jennifer on the side of the neck with the poker, like in close-quarters training, the brachial plexus. The shock of the impact ran up Nate’s arm. It was like hitting the trunk of a holm oak.

A surprisingly feminine shriek came out of Jennifer as she was catapulted sideways into the couch, which overturned backward, doilies flying. She rolled three feet along the floor until she came to rest against the far wall, her face against the baseboard. Breathing hard, his arm tingling and numb, Nate held on to the poker, rounded the corner of the overturned couch, and knelt beside her. One of her legs twitched slightly and the simian muscles in her bottom fluttered. Nate pulled her over to flop her on her back. One of Jennifer’s eyes was open, sightless; the other, mismatched, was rolled up into the back of her head. Her mouth was open but Nate could detect no breathing. Those fucking pink nails against the dark wood floor. One of Jennifer’s pedicured feet lay on top of a doily, like an éclair in a display case.

The stairs creaked and Benford came up to stand beside Nate. The living room was devastated, broken furniture and ceramics littered the floor. Benford looked down at Jennifer’s lopsided face. “Jesus,” he said.

“She’s like a fucking Bond villain,” said Nate. “Where do they find these people? I think I bent the poker.” He reached down to feel for a pulse on her neck, but her head flopped over to the other side too loose, too wobbly.

“Don’t bother,” said Benford. “The cervical neck flexor is gone. The strike tore the spinal cord loose. Avulsion.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Nate, whose hands were starting to shake.

“Avulsion. You separated her neck.”

Nate wiped his face. “Terrific. Stop me before I kill again.”

“Are you okay?” asked Benford.

“Yeah, thanks for the backup. The diversion of you running up the stairs gave me the opening I needed.” Nate stood up and let the poker drop to the floor. “Now what do we do?”

“I found a transmit sked,” said Benford. “We have to find her laptop and encryption card. Look in her bag. She probably communicated via secure Internet link. That and personal meetings. You?”

“Some sort of parts blueprint in a desk drawer. We should take this place apart.”

“Fuck that,” said Benford. “Collect what we have, we can call the FBI in now. Let them search this place with tweezers and baggies. They can go right ahead and explain how they didn’t catch an illegal operating right in their backyard. They can stuff their primacy up their asses.”

BENFORD’S CREAMED HORSERADISH SAUCE

Cook a medium béchamel; incorporate butter, Dijon mustard, and grated fresh horseradish to taste. Season with ground black pepper and red wine vinegar. Chill and serve.

The Moscow summerwas coming; the sun actually felt warm on her face. Dominika had started work on the “special project” in the Americas Department under General Korchnoi. Soon after her transfer, the general took her aside and told her they—the general and Dominika—would be taking an operational trip. The general said they were bidden to the First Deputy Director’s office within the hour to discuss it.

Dominika knew she was deceiving General Korchnoi, using the operation as cover to travel overseas so she could recontact the Americans. She liked and respected the general—he was professional and helpful—and she reflected that she was now taking advantage of someone decent, just as she had been taken advantage of by others. The muck of the cesspool had begun to stick on her haunches too. There was nothing to do about it, she told herself. She would have to betray his trust.

Back upstairs to Uncle Vanya? She would look him in the face and enjoy it. Her secret had not been discovered by the interrogators at Lefortovo. Dominika Egorova was a CIA penetration of the SVR, and none of them knew it. She had manipulated Uncle Vanya to put her back on the case against Nate. Now she would report early success, arrange more contacts, more foreign travel. The clandestine agent, reactivated.

What was this fever in her body? The Americans understood her. They had recognized right away the zhazhdat, her thirst for owning this secret, for the power it gave her. Nate’s purple cloud, and Bratok ’s purple cloud, and Forsyth’s azure halo, all intense and precious—they knew her better than her own countrymen did.

She did not know what, exactly, were her feelings for Nate. Thoughts of him while she was in prison had helped her survive the cabinets at the ends of the prison corridors. She tried not to think about their one night together, and she wondered if he thought about her. He had treated her mostly as an asset, a commodity. Did he ever see her as a woman? Did he care for her, Dominika?

She had to see them, all of them, the Americans, but especially Nate. Sending a message to them from Moscow would have been a frightful risk. Directorate K almost certainly would be watching her periodically, checking. They always did with the rehabilitated. With overseas travel imminent, she could wait.

It was time to go upstairs. They rode the elevator together in silence. She liked the white-haired spy beside her, the small space was filled with his deep purple spirit, comforting and steady. She knew that beneath the paternal smile was operational brilliance, a keen intellect, unbending patriotism. How had such a decent, thinking man lasted this long in the Service? From where did he draw sustenance? Dominika had no illusions that this old professional wouldn’t be able to detect any misstep on her part. She would have to be careful around him.

They walked together down the carpeted hallway Dominika knew so well, past the gallery lined with the airbrushed portraits of the Directors. The Gray Cardinals stared at her as she passed. You escaped this time, they seemed to be saying to her. We’ll be watching, they called as she walked past them, their eyes following her.

Korchnoi studied her face as they arrived at the executive suite and opened the door. He had seen the emotion in her, could feel her bristling. How to harness this? he thought. They entered the office, and Vanya was waiting for them, bluff and bald and backlighted canary-yellow, his ugly, ambitious color, against the windows, a hearty clap on the shoulder for Korchnoi, a sugary welcome for his niece. Dominika knew that the more sugar he spooned out, the more vinegar would fill her mouth.