Palace of Treason (14 page)

The Restricted Handling Headquarters cable to Athens Station drafted by Simon Benford in his trademark narrative—a style once described by an analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence as “Victorian stroke novel”—arrived several days after the PROD analysts had returned to Washington.

Three days after she returned to Moscow from Vienna, Dominika was taken in an official Mercedes at speed on the Rublevo-Uspenskoe Highway west out of Moscow. Zyuganov sat on the plush rear seat beside her, filling the interior with a soot-black cloud of resentment and bile that should have been spiraling out the windows of the vehicle as if the upholstery were alight.

Dominika’s preliminary report from the Jamshidi meeting had been enthusiastically received by science Line X, which forwarded highlights to the Kremlin, the Ministry of Defense, and the nuclear specialists at Rosatom. As no recording of the meeting had been made—every experienced field officer knew you don’t spook a new source with a tape recorder, concealed or otherwise—Dominika had to present the results personally. Kremlin bigwigs—ministers, generals, and bureaucrats—were smitten by the blue-eyed spy. She had created quite a sensation.

Zyuganov seethed as Dominika had been called several times to the director’s office, once without him. Then came this summons from the president’s
sekretariat. Thank God Zyuganov was included,
thought Dominika. She could feel the dwarf’s resentment smoldering like a hot brick wrapped in wool.

Driven by a uniformed farm boy with red ears, the car careered off the Rublyovka at the town of Barvikha, past the iron gates of the famous sanatorium,
pounded smoking dust down a country road that bordered a lake, past a score of wooden dachas among the trees, and finally slowed at the gatehouse to Barvikha Castle, one of the summer residences of the president.

They drove more slowly down a leafy lane until the pink-stone-paved drive emerged from the forest, and skirted a small formal garden with a single fountain. A light misting rain darkened the gray conical turrets of the castle—more a château than a castle, thought Dominika—as they stopped at an entrance at the base of one of the turrets. A white-coated butler waited at the top of the steps. There were a half dozen black cars parked in the front drive: Mercedeses, BMWs, a shark-nosed Ferrari. Zyuganov fussily got out of the car and unnecessarily said “Come on” as he climbed the steps. His black bubble was pulsating with excitement.

The dwarf was dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, tailored as if to hide a hunchback. A cream-colored shirt, a carelessly knotted brown tie, and brown shoes completed the hedgehog look. Dominika said a word of thanks that she was not wearing brown herself. She had chosen a navy suit and low heels as a safe compromise.
We’re not going to be asked to play croquet,
she thought. As usual she wore her hair up. The only jewelry she wore was a thin wristwatch on a narrow black band.

They walked on squeaking antique parquet floors down a brightly lit hallway into a small reception room, opulent with a spectacular Kashan carpet, a crystal chandelier, raised wooden wall panels, and heavy club chairs with massive curved arms, upholstered in rich green brocade flecked with gold. Podletsy, thought Dominika,
villains; the inheritors of modern Russia still decorate their palaces like the tsars.
The aide left them alone, with the door to the hallway open. There was the sound of another door opening nearby, and the buzz of men’s voices drifted out, the shuffle of footsteps filling the hall. Then President Putin entered the room, followed by a short man in a tussore suit. The president was dressed in his usual dark suit, brilliant white shirt, and robin’s-egg-blue tie.

“Colonel Zyuganov, Captain Egorova,” said the president, shaking hands. The same ice-blue aura, steady, dramatic. He did not introduce the other man, who was jowly and had a hooked nose, dark eyebrows, and wavy gray hair. He looked about sixty years old; his perfectly cut, crème-colored suit mostly hid what appeared to be a prodigious belly. He stood
quietly to the side, his hands behind his back, a filmy yellow mantle about his head and shoulders. Deceit, greed,
obzhorstvo.
Gluttony.

“I have read your report about the debriefing of the Iranian,” said Putin to Dominika. “A good first meeting.” Dominika could feel Zyuganov stir beside her.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Dominika. “Colonel Zyuganov’s operational guidance was essential in teasing the information out of him.” She did not look at Zyuganov.

“I’m sure it was,” said Putin, glancing in Zyuganov’s direction. “I want you to follow up with this scientist in the matter of the specialty floor for their secret centrifuge hall.”

“As of today, it’s a priority, Mr. President,” said Zyuganov, stepping forward. Dominika wondered why the president was involving himself in purely intelligence matters, and, more pointedly, why he was talking about operational details in front of a stranger. To question him, however, was unthinkable. Zyuganov apparently had no such reservations about speaking in front of an outsider.

“Line KR will determine what sort of equipment the Iranians require, and with whom they are negotiating,” said the dwarf.

“Of course. I can tell you that we would like to examine this procurement activity closely,” said Putin. “If we can determine Iranian intentions, perhaps there is a commercial opportunity for Russia,” he said.

Ochevidno,
obvious. Dominika instantly understood. Putin intended to use SVR intelligence to attempt to secure a big equipment deal for a crony—a hefty slice of the transaction would be tithed into one of Putin’s swollen foreign accounts. His blue halo was steady. Guilt did not intrude into his calculations.

“I present Gospodin Govormarenko,” said Putin half turning toward the short man. “He is associated with Iskra-Energetika. Colonel, I want you to assist him in gaining contact with AEOI representatives.” Dominika recognized the name, a former Leningrad party boss, a Putin ally, now with a personal worth of ninety billion rubles. A Paris suit, London shoes, and, undoubtedly, stained undershorts. His yellow fog drifted around him like cigar smoke in a closed room.

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Zyuganov, nodding at Govormarenko.
“We can make contact quickly through the Iranian Intelligence representative in Moscow. I have a direct connection with MOIS.”

“Do it any way you like,” said Putin, “but prompt action is critical.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Dominika. “I suspect that there is scant time for Gospodin Govormarenko to satisfy Iranian requirements for sophisticated building materials. They are in a rush.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Zyuganov said, stepping in to block her from Putin. “I’m sure we can make those determinations in Moscow.”

“If there’s no time to satisfy these Persians,” said Govormarenko, looking at Dominika, “what would you suggest?” His voice was gruff and scratchy, etched by decades of fusel oil in bathtub vodka. Zyuganov stiffened beside her—this was his account—and she could feel the wet flapping of his black bat wings.

She glanced briefly at the little man who had discovered that striking the tips of a woman’s toes created more pain, whose face was now wet with the urgency of the sycophant, and knew he too had been involved in Korchnoi’s assassination. In a flash, Dominika decided to spare them all nothing. She looked at Putin with ice welling in her throat, remembering what her grandmother told her the serfs used to say to one another:
Da pozabyl tebe skazat, zhena tvoya pomerla vesnoi,
oh, I forgot to tell you, your wife died last spring. Disaster has befallen you—you just don’t know it yet.

She took a breath. “I say only that the Iranians will not wait for equipment to be manufactured in Russia,” said Dominika. “If I can extract the information about where the Persians are procuring, then perhaps Russia can purchase the foreign equipment on their behalf, and transfer it to Tehran.” She did not add “for a profit.” Zyuganov fussed at her insolence. Putin saw his agitation, instinctively sought to drive a wedge.

“What would be the advantage to Iran to purchase, say, German equipment from Russia, rather than directly?” He turned to Zyuganov, but Dominika stepped on his halting reply.

“Mr. President,” she said offhandedly, “the procurement could be kept secret, which will appeal to the Persians. The equipment is quietly diverted, international sanctions and embargoes are circumvented, a most attractive element for the Iranians, even at double the cost. And Russia—you, Mr. President—gains influence inside Iran and by extension in the region.” Dominika saw Putin’s blue halo pinwheel like sunbeams: the tsar of all Russia,
the unchallenged master of the
Turniry Teney,
the Tournament of Shadows, the Great Game.

“You see, Vasya,” said Putin, turning to Govormarenko, revealing by the familiar diminutive his given name Vasili. “The strength and utility of intelligence is unquestioned. Our Service is without equal.” He turned to look at his two spooks. “Now it remains to be seen which approach brings us the results we need: Zyuganov and you through official channels, or Captain Egorova through clandestine means.” He turned to Dominika. A corner of his mouth turned up and he nodded—high praise from the president. She could hear Zyuganov breathing through his nose.

They had remained standing throughout the exchange and now Putin motioned them to the massive armchairs around an ornate table. A waiter brought a crystal chill bowl with four glasses and a bottle of vodka. A tray of toast rounds topped with glistening tapenade was set beside it. Govormarenko’s eyes lit up and he quickly poured four glasses and proposed a toast to future success. The vodka burned in Dominika’s chest. Govormarenko shoveled a piece of toast into his mouth and chewed vigorously. He nodded to Dominika, grinning, to try the appetizer, presumably so he could have more. Food was caught in his teeth.
Meshchanin vo dvoryanstve.
He was a mud-splattered villager turned gentry. She reached, took a toast point, and tasted the
zakuska,
the hors d’oeuvre. Eggplant, rich and savory, with a hint of sweetness, a hint of spice.

She looked at these men under the crystal chandelier in the wood-paneled room. This castle at this moment was filled with other Putin cronies, the usurpers of Russia’s patrimony. They were gathered here under the standard of the president to hatch new schemes to stuff their pockets and their bellies, while perishable foodstuffs—eggs, milk, and meat—were scarcely available outside Moscow. She had seen what was possible in the West.

A fine gathering: Govormarenko swilling vodka in his urine-yellow haze; Zyuganov, the beater of women, his black veil pulsing, staring at the president like a hound waiting for a whistle; and the president, sitting back in his armchair, not drinking, his half-lidded eyes fixed on Dominika. He was blue and chilled, like the barely touched vodka in the shot glass before him. Their eyes met and the corner of his mouth twitched again.

He knows what I think of them all,
thought Dominika.
He knows how he makes Zyuganov crazy with the dangled promise of recognition; he knows
what he’s doing pitting me against my boss.
Chaos, jealousy, and betrayal were his tools.

The Kremlin curtains parted for a second: Dominika’s sudden intuition was that the blond, blue-eyed president slouched across the table from her was a predator—a snake coiling to envenomate something small and furry. Then a second epiphany overlaid the first:
Putin covets.
He wants what others have. And the
taking
of something from someone is the ultimate delectation.

Her recruitment as a CIA asset had many components: personal choice, revenge, holding the icy secret in her bosom, her respect for the Americans, her love for Nate— She caught herself,
love for Nate
? She supposed so. But to these she now added her renewed determination to thwart the designs of these
vyrodki,
these degenerates, to make a wheel come off the cart. She looked at the president again. He was still staring at her and a shiver ran up her back. Could he tell? Could he divine her secret? CIA’s reactivated penetration agent of SVR in the new Russian Federation—code-named DIVA—unconsciously bounced her foot under the table as she dared him to do something about it.