Jason Matthews - Red Sparrow

Now down to business. The target was still the American, the CIA officer called Nash who held the name of the traitor in his head. Dominika must succeed, for time was of the essence. The general and Dominika would have been surprised that their silent thoughts during this fulsome performance were very nearly identical. Hvastun . Boaster, bouncer, blowhard.

General Korchnoi spoke, quietly, thoughtfully. This project will require Corporal Egorova to make periodic foreign trips. Is there a problem with that, considering her recent—and highly lamentable—investigation? Uncle Vanya spread his arms as if in benediction. No, of course not. Everything to be left in your capable hands. Getting to the American, recontact, is the point. See to it, then, and let it be done excellently. Vanya winked at her.

They were walking back, along the broad corridor of the ground floor, Korchnoi speaking easily, making lists for her, directing her to begin filling the folder with details, schedules, gambits. Dominika saw that he was pleased, and gratified, and not at all suspicious or worried. Why should he be? Dominika was an excellent protégée. Betraying him was difficult, but it was necessary. That was how it had to be.

Coming toward them in the corridor along the opposite wall was Line F executioner Sergey Matorin. He seemed not to recognize her. Dominika’s vision started to narrow. She felt fear, then an aerosolized rage that had her measuring the distance between her fingers and his eyes. Could the general sense the woolpack of her hatred? Did he not see the trail of bloody footprints, or the black shroud that billowed around Matorin? Could he not hear the musical note of the chine of his scythe as he dragged it behind him? Matorin’s milky white eye passed over her as he continued down the corridor. As he walked he hugged the wall like a ray swimming over a sandy ocean floor, trailing thick, elemental black smoke, like blood in the water. Looking after him, Dominika shuddered at the thinning hair on the back of his skull, and at his empty fingers that grasped and ungrasped, waiting to hold a knife.

Eight o’clock, and a rainy night. Vanya Egorov was driven through the Borovitskaya Gate in the western corner of the Kremlin, tires drumming over the slick cobblestones, past the Grand Palace and the Cathedral of the Archangel, and left past Building Fourteen to a yawning, deserted Ivanovskaya Square. His official Mercedes eased through the narrow gate to the inner courtyard of the mustard-yellow Senate building and pulled to a stop under a dimly lit porte cochere. The last time he had been inside these walls was to receive his second star. Tonight he had to show he deserved to keep it.

An aide knocked once, opened the door, and stepped aside. The president’s office was relatively small and richly paneled. A green marble pen set was the only object on the surface of his desk; the lights in the wall sconces were dialed low. The president was in a dark suit and white shirt with no tie. Egorov tried not to notice that Putin was in his stocking feet, his shoes pushed underneath his chair. The president was sitting at a small inlaid table in front of his desk, his hands folded in his lap. No papers, no news wires, no television. Egorov sat down at the little table.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” he said. Putin’s face as usual was a mask, but tonight he looked tired.

“General Egorov,” said Putin, who looked at his wristwatch, then fixed his electric eyes on Vanya’s face. Go. And keep it brief. Egorov modulated his voice.

“The communications manual acquired from the Americans continues to be a rich source of critical data and cyber opportunities in the future.” Putin nodded once, blue eyes unblinking.

“Our sensitive asset in Washington, SWAN, is providing comprehensive technical information on US military space vehicles. The Kosmicheskie Voyska, the Space Forces, rate the intelligence as excellent. My rezident in Washington—”

“You mean my rezident, ” said Putin.

“Of course; your rezident, General Golov, is handling SWAN with utmost care,” said Egorov, telling himself to watch it, with him in this mood.

An aide knocked and brought in a tray with steaming tea in delicate filigree podstakanniky, silver spoons balanced over the rims of the glasses, a sugar cube in each. The tray was placed on a nearby conference table in the corner of the room, along with a silver salver of madeleines. Both were out of reach and remained untouched.

“Go on,” said Putin after the aide had left.

“We continue to search for a mole run by the CIA, probably in the Service. It is only a matter of time before we unmask him.”

“It is important that you do so,” said Putin. “More evidence that foreigners, the Americans, are working to disrupt our government.”

“Yes, Mr. President. It’s doubly important. The mole threatens the security of our assets—”

“Like SWAN,” said Putin. “Nothing must happen to her, no komprometirovat, no international flaps, no failures.” Egorov noted with interest that the president correctly knew the gender of SWAN. He knew he hadn’t mentioned it before.

“We have identified the CIA officer who handles this mole. I am initiating an operation against him to obtain the name of his agent.”

“Fascinating,” said Putin, a former KGB officer, “but you do not need my approval to conduct such an operation.”

“It is a complicated konspiratisa, ” said Egorov, circling around the subject. “I intend to direct one of our officers to engage the American, to compromise him. I want the name of his agent.”

Putin’s mask shifted slightly, whether from discomfort or vicarious pleasure, Egorov could not tell. “I want discretion, and moderation. I do not condone the physical abduction of this CIA officer. This is not done between rival services. The consequences would be unmanageable.” The president’s voice was silky, the cobra flaring its hood. A porcelain Fabergé clock on a side table tinged the half hour. The tea across the room had grown cold.

“Of course. I am taking all precautions, Mr. President. Apart from my direction, a senior officer is supervising the action in the field against the American.”

“And the younger officer—a woman, correct?—was recently cleared in a counterintelligence investigation?”

“Yes, sir,” said Egorov, looking at the liverwurst lips as they moved.

“And do I remember correctly that this young woman is your niece?” He looked Egorov in the eyes. “The daughter of your late brother?”

“Family is the best security,” said Egorov lamely. This was a show of omniscience, of strength, designed to shock, then awe subordinates. Like Stalin used to do. “She will follow my directions.”

“Have her engage the American, but I do not condone active measures. It is out of the question.” Putin obviously knew the option had been discussed.

“As you wish, Mr. President,” said Egorov.

Nine minutes later Egorov’s footsteps were ringing down the grand staircase as he scurried to his waiting car. He collapsed in the backseat, contemplating the disasters that lurked in the career of ambition. As his Mercedes flashed under the Borovitskaya archway, Vanya did not see another official car, less grand, heading toward the Senate building he had just left, carrying his Line KR counterintelligence chief, the diminutive Alexei Zyuganov.

KREMLIN MADELEINES

Make a genoise batter by mixing eggs and salt until thick, then add sugar gradually, and vanilla extract. Fold in flour and beurre noisette to form a thick batter. Pour into greased and floured madeleine molds and bake in moderate oven until edges are golden brown. Unmold and cool on a wire rack.