Palace of Treason (20 page)

“And you, Dominika, we need detailed intelligence from you the likes of which you’ve never reported before. We want to know about the finances of this Iran deal down to the last decimal point. We want to know how and when they’re going to deliver this technology to Moscow and then to Tehran. I have prepared notes for you to consider regarding the ostensible covert delivery of the equipment to Tehran. You may have occasion to use it in front of Putin and garner credit for yourself.”

Dominika bounced her foot. “Gospodin Benford, getting physically close to the president is not particularly difficult. He surrounds himself with cronies who do not challenge him. Being in his
confidence
is another matter. He is suspicious and envious.”

“Fascinating. But can you do it?” said Benford.

“I think yes,” said Dominika. “You remember I was trained in that sort of thing before I began work with you gentlemen.” She smiled mildly without blinking at Benford.

Across the room, Gable looked over at a visibly uncomfortable Nate, pursed his lips, and raised one enigmatic eyebrow. “Whaddya think, Nash, good idea?”

The kitchen of the safe house was likewise right out of the 1920s, with a massive wooden table in the center of the room, heavy porcelain milk pitchers on the counter, a huge gray stone sink, and a black-and-white tile floor. Gable made sure the connecting door to the living room was closed.

“Simon, I want to talk to you about something,” said Gable. Benford was washing his hands in the sink.

“Me and Nash both agree,” said Gable. “Forsyth too. You know, it don’t matter a damn whether she’s good, or has the nerve, or whether we find the right sites for her in Moscow. Keeping her neck out of the noose is totally dependent on how good the Station officer putting down the freaking drop is. If they send a cherry out against the FSB—or worse, an idiot—we’ll lose her in thirty days.”

“Thank you, Marty,” said Benford, turning off the tap. “I fully appreciate the situation.” Gable threw him a dish towel.

“I’d just as soon disguise Nash as a Finn tourist and send him in to load the drop,” said Gable.

“As much as it may surprise you, I considered that,” said Benford. “But we could not with a clear conscience take that risk. We have to rely on Moscow Station to get her the equipment, and then manage the SRAC link.”

“That slipknot Gondorf still isn’t out there, is he?” said Gable.

“He has moved on to other challenges and is inflicting himself on the French in Paris.”

“What about Moscow? Who’s chief out there now?”

“Vernon Throckmorton,” said Benford without inflection. His face did not move. Gable leaned wearily against the kitchen table.

“Are you kidding?” said Gable, “He’s worse than Gondorf. A dreary son of a bitch.”

“He has the favor of the division chief, and impressed the director enough to receive the assignment.”

“Simon,” said Gable. Not many people in CIA talked back to Benford. “He’s a train wreck. The list of his flaps is a mile long. He compromises cases before breakfast, but the worst part is he doesn’t know how bad he is. He thinks he’s a fucking operator.”

“That is your opinion, and it may well be, yet he is the newly designated chief of Moscow Station, with ultimate authority over his operations,” said Benford, looking at Gable. “You get what you get.” Gable, exasperated, tried one last time.

“I know this guy; he’ll insist on going out on the street himself to put down Domi’s package. He wouldn’t see surveillance if it was riding in his backseat.” Benford’s face remained impassive. Gable extended his arms.
“Jesus, Simon, they’ll pick him up three yards from kickoff: The motherfucker has a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle,” said Gable. Benford did not react.

“You cannot put DIVA in his hands, you can’t. We might as well pull her out and resettle her ass.”

Benford shrugged. “I have considered an alternative. ‘We are no longer operating in simple times, when history still wore a rose, when politics had not outgrown the waltz.’ ”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Gable.

“Prisoner of Zenda,”
said Benford. “It means we must contemplate desperate measures in desperate times.”

“That’s just great,” said Gable, shaking his head, turning to go back to the living room. He stopped at the kitchen door. “What kind of alternative?” he asked.

“I will not unnecessarily jeopardize DIVA; there are too many risks already. To maximize her safety, I intend on placing my own penetration inside Moscow Station.”

It was getting late, and a prattling Benford sat next to Dominika on the couch with an enormous world atlas open on his lap. He was using a squeaking felt-tip pen to trace a five-thousand-kilometer water route from the North Sea, through the Russian interior via the Volga Basin, to the southern coast of the Caspian Sea and the Iranian port of Bandar-e Anzali. “I trust your president will appreciate the advantages not only of maritime transport but also of covert delivery of the equipment to their clients,” said Benford. Nate got up from the couch.

“Won’t Putin become suspicious?” said Nate. “How is Dominika supposed to know about ship canals?”

“It will be all right, Neyt,” said Dominika. “I will tell them I used to watch barges on the Volga when I was at Sparrow School. Besides, they all are drooling to make more money for themselves; they will never change. Never.” She turned and looked at Benford beside her.
“Gorbatogo tol’ko mogila ispravit,”
she told him, smiling.

“Hell’s that mean?” said Gable.

“Only the grave will cure the hunchback,” said Dominika. Gable laughed.

Benford departed and Gable went out and came back with food. They worked through the evening. Nate and Dominika pored over maps and street footage of Moscow on Nate’s TALON. The two of them picked a series of likely cache sites by which Dominika could receive her covcom equipment. She would have to case them on the ground herself. They would review the intricate exfiltration plan—Red Route Two—when the binder full of maps, photos, site reports, frequencies, and timing runs arrived the next morning. They could provisionally work out pickup sites in Moscow now. Hot-pursuit exfil, rolling pickup on the street: “As hairy as it gets,” said Gable. He didn’t add what happened to the agent when an escape plan unraveled. Nate fidgeted with the thought of Dominika vainly fleeing Moscow: He imagined the spotlights coming on, and the cars stopped sideways on the street, the grim men clustered around her.

The TALON’s screen was smallish, so they sat close beside each other to look at the images. Nate could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell soap and shampoo. He watched her slim hands slide images on the TALON back and forth. She was totally engrossed. When Dominika went to the bathroom, Gable opened two beers and handed one to Nate.

“She looks good,” said Gable.

“What do you mean?” said Nate, fastening his seat belt. He knew how Marty Gable came at things.

“I mean she looks okay after that close call with the Iranian team in the Vienna woods.” He tipped the beer back. “You did a good job getting her out of a jam.”

“Thanks,” said Nate. He knew this was just the coda before the symphony.

“She’s going to have to walk a fine line back in Moscow. This is a big deal.”

“She can do it,” said Nate. “It’s why MARBLE picked her. He’d be proud of her.” Gable nodded, finished his beer.

“Just so long as you don’t send her back inside with your GPS,” said Gable. Nate looked at him, then down at the TALON set.

“We’re not going to give her—”

“I don’t mean that; I mean your Guilty Penis Syndrome.”

“What—?”

Gable pointed a finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t say a fucking word. I thought we talked about this.”

“Jesus, Marty, I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t jeopardize—”

“You don’t know apple butter from shit spread thin,” said Gable. “What, you think that, if she loves you, she’ll do anything for you?”

“What are you complaining about?” said Nate bitterly. “You just described the perfect agent.”

“Yeah, I did,” said Gable getting another beer. “Perfect until we get word she took one too many risks for you, and got caught, and they fed her alive feet first into a wood chipper.” They stopped talking when Dominika came back into the living room, but she saw the two purple mushroom clouds above their heads and knew what they had been talking about—all of it.

They stopped working at 1:00 a.m. There would be another full day ahead with techs and SRAC and exfil planning. Jet-lagging Gable was asleep on the couch and Dominika covered him with a blanket while Nate placed another log on the fire. They walked up the curving staircase to the second floor and stood in the darkened hallway together, not moving.

“You okay with all this, so far?” said Nate. She knew he was worried, worried about her, and she was glad.

“
Konechno,
of course,” said Dominika. “When I get back to the Center, I will tell them I had to stay inside for a day and a night after finding Jamshidi and abandoning the safe house. There will be no trouble.” She was quiet for a beat, remembering Udranka.

“I want you to listen carefully tomorrow to the
spasitel’naya zateya,
the exfil plan. I want you to be able to bug out if something goes wrong.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dominika.

“I’m serious,” said Nate.

“I am serious too, Neyt,” Dominika said. “Do you think I will flee if I am in danger?” She brushed his cheek with her hand, almost feeling the purple halo around his head. “There is much I must do. They have to answer for Korchnoi.” Nate took a step back.

“Terrific. Now you’re on a jihad?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?”

Nate yawned. “All right. It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

Dominika looked at him through her lashes. “Shall I call you in the morning … or should I nudge you?”

“Domi. Gable’s right downstairs …”

“Do you want me to fetch him?” she said, laughing softly.

“Charming,” said Nate.

“I have something else charming to say to you,” Dominika said. She leaned toward him, brushed her lips against his lips, then bent and put her mouth next to his ear. She breathed in his purple fog.

“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered, pushing him toward his bedroom door.

Gable was downstairs, snoring quietly from the back of his throat. But he would know, and Benford would know, and then Forsyth. Dominika reached up and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Nate’s purple fog was pulsing and she knew he was caught again by the old demons. She didn’t care. Last night had cleared her head, and she knew what she wanted. She put a hand against his cheek.

“Neyt, I am inside the Center. I am placed in SVR counterintelligence. I am becoming close to the president, with access to information deciding one of the most important operations ever attempted by your service. I am back with you all now. I will report to you from Moscow. I know what to do, and how to do it. I know the risks. I know how to operate.” Nate stared at her.

“What happened to us yesterday,” said Dominika, “when we survived last night, and later on with you, I found something that was lacking from before. How do you say
ravnovesie
?”