Palace of Treason (12 page)

“Have you considered,” said Nate, “that if our little operation hits a bump, if Jamshidi starts squawking, the Center’s eventually going to want to know if your Sparrow was part of this false flag op, how much she knew. If this goes badly, they’ll chop her into little pieces.”

Dominika wondered how many pieces they would get out of Udranka’s 1.85 leggy meters. “She’s got nowhere to go,” said Dominika. “She has nobody.”

“I think we should include her in a contingency exfiltration plan if we have to bug out,” said Nate.

Dominika looked at him in the dark bar. “You would do that?”

“She’s part of the operation now,” said Nate. Concern for the benighted girl was not the whole story, thought Nate. If they had to withdraw, getting
the Sparrow to safety would cauterize any flap. Still, Dominika was visibly touched. She smiled at him.

They looked at each other across the little plastic table, half of their faces faintly illuminated by the light behind the bar. They didn’t touch; they didn’t speak. Dominika could feel the electrons jumping the gap between them, could feel them in her heightened heartbeat. Her eyes darted over his face—his mouth, his eyes, the lock of hair on his forehead. He was looking at her, and she imagined the feel of his skin against her. She told herself she would not start anything—
she would not
—even though she needed him. She needed him to ease the burden that came with her new life as a mole, a betrayer of her country, living one step from the execution chambers. But she would not.

Nate looked at her, saw her lips trembling. In Helsinki he would have gathered her up and taken her to bed. Not now. She had reemerged from Moscow, was willing to resume work as their—his—penetration agent. Nate would not jeopardize it, would not disrespect MARBLE’s memory. As he looked at Dominika’s backlit hair, Nate thought of what had to be done.

His purple aura, normally steady, always constant, suddenly wavered in the night air. In a flash Dominika’s remarkable intuition told her that he still struggled with his professional discipline, even as he fought the passion she could see in his eyes. She knew she could not again bear to see the light fade from his eyes as they lay beside each other in bed.

“We will talk about taking care of my Sparrow later,” said Dominika. “Right now, we both need some sleep.”

“Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” said Nate, thinking operationally. Dominika knew what he meant. The fizz had gone out of the evening.

“I think not, Neyt,” said Dominika.

They paid the bill and walked down quiet streets to Dominika’s front door. Nate looked at her and the case officer in him knew what she had decided and precisely why. Correct. Prudent. Secure. Dominika gave him a light kiss on the cheek, turned, and went inside without looking back at him.

In her apartment, her eyes closed, Dominika stood with her back against the bedroom door, her arms wrapped around herself. She listened for some sound from the street below, the sound of him buzzing to be let
in, so she could throw open the door and wait for him to come bounding up to the landing, into her arms.

She kicked off her shoes, pulled her dress over her head, and flopped onto the single bed, sinking into the plush comforter, trying not to think about Nate, or the bastards in the Center, or tomorrow’s operation with Jamshidi, so very risky, or her itchy scalp and the wet between her legs that wouldn’t go away. Dominika rolled over with a groan, hesitated, then reached for
prababushka
’s brush on the nightstand beside the bed. Great-grandmother’s brush. She held it in her hand, familiar yet forbidden. She knew that in three minutes she could be shuddering, eyes rolled back white behind fluttering lids, and then asleep two minutes after that. She looked for one of her friends in the dark corners of the room, but there were no mermaids tonight. Only the memory of Nate, and of his earnest, pained expression when talking about himself, and of his darting eyes when they were walking along dark streets, and of his expression when he looked at her.

With another groan she tossed the hairbrush clattering into the corner of the room, turned over onto her stomach, and contemplated a restless night.

Nate had taken some care with his disguise as an SVR Line X nuclear analyst. Disguise for close-up use is as much art as science, less a matter of a false mustache or colored contact lenses than a limited number of minute details taken together that give an impression, establish the visual image that lets the observer’s mind take over and complete the illusion. At dusk they met at the rendezvous point. Dominika closely inspected the finished product.

She approved the haircut he had gotten that morning, short and high on the sides. The plain three-button jacket was in vogue from the Alps to the Urals. The necktie he had chosen was all wrong (“No Muscovite would wear such a thing”), so they decided he would simply wear his light-blue shirt with the long-point collar unbuttoned. The shoes were Polish, with flat, squared toes, purchased at a discount shop (“Revolting,” said Dominika. “Make sure he sees them”) and the eyeglasses had clear lenses and cheap gold metal frames. She was satisfied with the look.

That afternoon Nate had met a Vienna Station officer for a thirty-second timed meet to be passed a street-expedient disguise kit from the Office of Technical Services. The OTS kit contained a gold tooth overlay crown, silicon rolls to lift the cheekbones, wedge inserts for inside a shoe to create a limp, hair-coloring wands, mustaches and spirit glue, a stick-on face mole, and a small bottle of a chemical (with applicator) that temporarily would create a port-wine stain on the back of a hand or the side of the neck. Nate decided to use only the last of these.

“Nothing distracts quite as effectively as a small detail,” Nate told a skeptical Dominika, who looked at the spidery purple splotch on the back of Nate’s left hand. “You guys missed
glasnost
because you were all staring at Gorbachev’s head for three years.”

“Nekulturny.”
Dominika sniffed as they turned toward Udranka’s apartment. They both automatically, wordlessly, walked a looping route, glancing up and down the street as they crossed, finding a double corner and watching for any reaction, and finally nodding to each other that both were
satisfied they were black. On the street Dominika worked hard, but with a little envy saw that Nate was consistently flawless in this environment.

As they silently climbed the darkened stairs in Udranka’s building, Nate reached out and caught Dominika by the wrist. He pulled her to face him, halfway up the curved staircase. Faint noises from behind apartment doors floated up the stairwell.

“Before we go in,” he whispered, “I want to tell you how good it is to work with you again.” He still held her wrist in his hand. She said nothing, unsure of what to do, of what this meant. “This operation, with the Iranian, is inspired. If it works we can change the whole equation.” He smiled at her like a schoolboy, his purple halo around his shoulders.
Seal this with a kiss?
she thought. No, she was not going to risk her pride anymore.

“And I like working with you,” said Dominika, lifting up his hand and looking at the colored blotch, “even if you look like a
napevat,
a troll living under a bridge.” She gently freed her hand from his grasp. “Come on, we have a half hour before our horned owl arrives.”

In the apartment Udranka silently appraised Nate with an eye that took in his slim figure, his hands, the line of his jaw. A Sparrow assessing an earthworm. She looked significantly at Dominika as if to say, “How is he in bed?” Udranka wore a rust-colored minidress, tight across the chest and around the haunches, and black heels that made her even taller. As Dominika fiddled in the concealed cabinet to dismantle the Center’s video and audio equipment, Udranka sat down beside Nate on the couch.

“You are from Moscow?” she asked in Russian.

“Yes, I arrived last night,” said Nate. He had memorized the Aeroflot schedules that morning, anticipating that Jamshidi might ask the same question.

“And you have worked with Egorova before?” she said. Udranka did not know Nate was an American case officer. It was prudent that she never know.

“No, this is the first time.” Nate was about to compliment Udranka on the job she had done with the Iranian but stopped himself. No mere SVR analyst who was focused solely on the upcoming debrief would dip into such operational details.

Udranka looked him over from her seat on the couch. She crossed her legs, the muscles of her thighs moving, the start of the seductive swell of her
bottom just visible beneath the dress. “I would have guessed that you two know each other,” she said, looking up at Dominika, who had come back into the room. “The way you walked in together, I don’t know.”

“Let’s leave the guessing games for later,
devushka,
girlfriend,” said Dominika, smiling.

“Well, I like him,” said Udranka. “He’s got a good face.”

“Do you think so?” said Dominika.

“Of course, don’t you?” said Udranka. Nate unzipped his satchel, avoiding her eyes.

“But a studious expert from Moscow?” said Udranka, looking at him with a sideways glance. “I think not.”

“Stop talking and fetch the tray,” said Dominika.

Udranka smiled and went into the kitchen. She returned carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle of scotch. She leaned over the low table in front of the couch to put it down, giving Nate a prolonged look right out of the playbook. He suddenly understood what it must have been like being a Christian in the Colosseum of ancient Rome, waiting for the lions. Dominika saw it all, one Sparrow to another, and looked at Nate.

“Once a
vorobey,
always a Sparrow,” she said, and Udranka laughed, straightened, walked back into the bedroom, and softly closed the door.
These Russians know their business,
Nate thought,
harnessing this elemental force of nature.
He thanked Christ that they’d soon be operating. Just then there was a soft knock at the door.

“Gotov?”
whispered Dominika, ready? Nate nodded and began studiously looking at the notes set out on the table.

They had been at it for two hours. Dr. Parvis Jamshidi sat on the couch, his shirt collar unbuttoned, leaning forward with intensity. A briefcase lay on the cushion beside him, unopened. He had arrived angry, petulant, full of indignation. He had been prepared to have a tantrum when he saw Nate sitting there, but Dominika in two smooth sentences assured Jamshidi that sending an analyst was a vast compliment, Moscow’s acknowledgment of his towering talent, and the Persian accepted the flummery without a blink.

Still, Jamshidi nursed an attitude—arrogance springing from fear—and
Dominika, sitting on the couch beside him, had begun harshly establishing control. Nate’s French was basic, but he saw how Dominika brought the scientist from resentment to grudging acceptance of the situation by stroking his professional pride. He reveled in it, talking science, of the inevitability of Iranian success in the nuclear program, his brilliance in full cockatoo display. Dominika understood him, played him minutely, tied him up tightly.

After the first fifteen minutes, struggling with nuclear technical terms in French, Jamshidi sat back, looked at Dominika.

“You speak English?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Dominika.

“What about you?” Jamshidi said, looking at Nate. Seated in a chair on the other side of the coffee table, Nate did not react, and continued writing in a notebook.

“Unfortunately my colleague speaks only Russian,” said Dominika.
Careful here,
thought Nate.

“I expected as much,” said Jamshidi, looking back at Dominika. “I know someone who can treat that blemish on his hand,” he said suddenly, his eyes darting over to Nate. Willing his hand to stay still, Nate continued writing.

“Let’s continue,” said Dominika in English. “You were describing the centrifuge halls at Natanz.”

“Three separate halls, designated A, B, and C,” said Jamshidi. “Twenty-five thousand square meters per hall. Covered by a reinforced roof and earth to a depth of twenty-two meters.” Dominika translated.
This is encyclopedia bullshit
, thought Nate, checking the Line X requirements and wishing he had notes from PROD. Time to pull Jamshidi’s goatee. He spoke to Dominika in Russian.

“We are aware of the configuration of the fuel-enrichment plant,” he said brusquely, a little impatience bleeding into his voice. “We are aware of only two halls, however. Ask him about the third hall; that’s new.”

Dominika asked. Jamshidi leaned back and smiled. “Halls A and B have approximately five thousand machines each. Only a fraction of these large cascades are operating with any regularity.” Nate made himself wait to consult his notes until Dominika finished translating.

“What are the problems with these large cascades?” asked Nate.

Jamshidi shrugged. “We have been converting from early Pakistani machines, P-1s and P-2s. We are learning as we go. Our own IR-1 centrifuges
are vastly superior, but we have encountered problems operating the cascades for extended periods.” Nate waited for the translation, then waited some more.

“We sustained a cascade crash last year because a technician assembled a machine without sterile gloves.” He looked over at Dominika. “The bacteria on his hands, which had been transferred to the inner tube, was enough minutely to unbalance the mechanism. At speed the tube crashed. I suppose I do not have to describe the domino effect within a cascade accident.

“There have been other problems. Supply of uranium hexafluoride feed stock is uneven, other operating difficulties,” Jamshidi said.

“Such as?” said Dominika.

“We are beset by problems from outside Iran. Embargoes of strategic materials. Computer viruses from the Zionists and the Great Satan.” He looked over at Nate, as if he suspected something. “Unknown saboteurs three months ago destroyed five high-tension pylons in the desert outside the plant.”

“And what about the third cascade hall?” asked Dominika.

Jamshidi sat up. “It is my personal project; I conceived it. The hall is being constructed in total secrecy, to exact specifications. It is separated from the other two halls by a tunnel and three blast doors. We are installing seismic-reactive floors. Filtered, controlled atmosphere. It is impregnable. IAEA inspectors are unaware of it.” Jamshidi stuck out his chin in pride. Nate did not react, even after Dominika had translated.
This is intel; it’s heating up.

“Continue,” said Nate. “Describe the function of the hall.”

Jamshidi looked at them, smiled, and almost imperceptibly shook his head no. “This is my project. You go too far.” Nate saw Dominika’s blue eyes flash. Her voice was honey with a vinegar chaser.

“Doctor. We’ve discussed this already. You simply cannot stop now. We were doing so well. We are your allies, and we want to protect Iran against those outside forces you describe, that would deny you your work.” Dominika put a hand in a pocket and thumbed her cell phone.

Jamshidi continued, smiling. “If you want to help my country, then you should conclude this charade. You’re asking the impossible,” he said.

“What can I do to change your mind?” said Dominika. “The bonds between our two countries run deep.”

“Of course they do. Russia has been meddling in Persia for centuries,” Jamshidi snorted.

Nate had conducted coercive debriefings with difficult agents before. He had seen Marty Gable lift a little Chinese attaché by the lapels and actually plant his butt on the mantelpiece of a safe-house fireplace, his legs dangling, and tell him he couldn’t come down until he started cooperating again. Not exactly accepted technique, but it pushed some Asian button of shame or saving face or something, and the little guy was back in his chair in two minutes, pounding mao-tai with Gable, and singing like a soprano.

But this was different. All agents have internal barriers, and Jamshidi apparently had fetched up against one of his: He would give up the larger program, but he wasn’t going to talk about his personal project within that program. It defined him. The door to Udranka’s bedroom opened, and Udranka walked into the room, luminous, magenta-haired, her little dress moving like snakeskin over her body. Nate thought he could see the heat-shimmer in the air above her head. As Udranka passed him, Nate could smell her scent, Krasnaya Moskva, known in Europe as Moscou Rouge—the infamous Red Moscow perfume created in 1925, the same year Stalin’s OGPU sent families to the first of the gulags.

Jamshidi glanced at her guiltily, then looked away.
He’s going to bluff through it,
thought Nate. Udranka passed in front of the couch, towering over Jamshidi, who refused to look up at her. She went into the kitchen, trailing a bloom of coriander and jasmine. Jamshidi continued looking at Dominika.

“Doctor, we are all human, we all have desires and needs,” said Dominika with a stone face. “I make no judgments. But I fear members of your own community would not so readily endorse your activities. Don’t you think so?”

Jamshidi kept staring at her.

“Much less those rather stuffy graybeards—I don’t mean to be disrespectful—on the Supreme Council,” said Dominika. “And think of how disappointed the ayatollah would be. And how he would censure you. And what you would
forfeit.
”