Palace of Treason (49 page)

“Yeah, he’s out,” said Proulx.

“Okay,” said Gore. “Enough of Pyotr Ilyich; give me some ZZ Top.”

Five hours later the SEAL SWCS eased up astern of the US Navy amphibious landing ship LPD-24, the USS
Arlington,
which was participating in a US Sixth Fleet antisubmarine warfare exercise with the Estonian and Latvian navies. The
Arlington
was slowly steaming in a racetrack ASW course west of Suursaari Island in the Gulf of Finland, 120 kilometers west of the exfil beach. The SWCS was floated into the
Arlington
’s flooded well deck during a prolonged squall that reduced visibility to zero. LYRIC was out and safe.

Dominika followed the guard jeep with the rotating yellow light down a broad avenue, the palace looming to the left, then in a wide curve past administrative buildings and the multistory hotel that accommodated conference attendees, through a park of trees and well-tended lawns, a fountain, a baroque gingerbread house with a double-eagle medallion on the peak of the roof and through another gate with the candy-cane barrier already raised. They passed modern, boxy two-story mansions with light-green mansard roofs, one after another. Dominika counted ten or twelve, and there were others behind these, all of them dark and sitting naked in a park devoid of trees and crisscrossed with cement walkways. These were
the VIP cottages reserved for heads of state during international gatherings at the Palace of Congresses State Complex, right on the shore. The Gulf of Finland was visible in the growing light, and Dominika wondered what President Putin would say if he knew there was a US Navy minisubmarine out there under the surface, carrying a Russian military officer to safety in the West, a two-star general who had been a reporting source of CIA. Would he break a bloodstained canine gnashing his teeth?

They pulled into the circular drive of the last of the cottages—it was brightly lit. A dozen other cars were parked in a small contiguous lot. Of the eighteen mansions, this was the closest to the sea. A butler in white coat came out of the house to take Dominika’s pitiful suitcase inside. Another attendant stood to park the car. Dominika dully realized that the ripple-soled shoes in her bag most likely had beach sand on them, as surely did the floor mats of the car. Nothing she could do about it now. As they climbed the shallow steps of the mansion a stubby blue helicopter roared overhead, the range lights on its belly flashing, then banked sharply over the water and came back to buzz the mansion.

The vast entrance hall was marble and gilt trim and frescoed ceilings. Russians living in the mean little towns between here and Moscow slept in single rooms with dirt floors, but the
praviteli,
the lords of the country, swathed themselves in rococo splendor. Dominika’s heels clicked on the travertine, echoing in the space, producing a doomsday clockwork
tick-tock
sound. A side door opened and a majordomo approached. An obsequious welcome and the suggestion that perhaps the captain would like some light refreshment after her long drive.
You have no idea, Tolstoy,
thought Dominika. She was exhausted. He led the way through tall glass doors that opened onto a sprawling terrazzo patio with a sweeping view of the ocean. Radiant heating units negated the morning chill. A sideboard groaning with chafing dishes, crystal decanters, and silver bowls filled with flowers stretched along the side wall. Dominika took a flute of juice.

She walked to the railing to look down on a lower-level terrace with an enormous swimming pool lit by aqua-colored underwater spots, bright even in the rising morning light. Steam rose from the heated water. Two men in dark suits—blobs of brown around their heads—stood at either end of the pool, watching the president of the Russian Federation swim laps. Putin was using a punishing butterfly stroke, coming up massively
in the water and with clenched fists hammering the water in front of him. There was nothing of the silky dolphin undulation of the expert butterfly swimmer—Dominika had seen Nate swim fly with virtually no splashing. Each time Putin came up to breathe, water streamed from his face and he would blow like a whale, throwing out a mist cloud in front of him, tinged aqua either by the pool lights or by the aura around his head and shoulders. After a full length, he showed no sign of tiring and Dominika turned away. At the other end of the terrace was a grouping of chairs—a single man was sitting with his back to her. He turned as he heard her approaching footsteps.

It was Govormarenko of Iskra-Energetika, the crapulent Putin crony who had negotiated the seismic-floor deal with the Persians. She remembered the dark comma of eyebrows over the hooked nose, the wavy white hair of the debauchee. He rose as Dominika approached, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. There was a full plate of food and a half-empty flagon of beer on the low table in front of him. He was dressed casually, in black slacks, a peach sweater, and white leather Gucci driving moccasins.

“Captain Egorova, welcome,” he said, smiling. Despite the napkin, there were crumbs clotted at the corners of his mouth.
He remembered my name,
thought Dominika.
Either I’m on the agenda or he wants to share a hot tub.

“Gospodin Govormarenko,” said Dominika, nodding.

“What an early arrival,” he said, “but a pleasure to see you again.” He gestured to a chair.

“I drove last night from Moscow,” said Dominika, sitting on a separate armchair. It would do no harm to establish her cover story about last night. “I plan on visiting family in Petersburg.” She looked out at the sea. The rising sun was coloring the small whitecaps pink, and the sky promised to be cloudless. The terrace was still and comfortable, despite the frontage on an open coast: Spotless glass panels around the terrace railing blocked the wind.

“My God, no one drives from Moscow; you’re lucky to be alive,” said Govormarenko, flirting. “You should have told me. I would have sent my plane to fetch you.”

Fetch me a vomiting basin,
thought Dominika. It was certain that Govormarenko’s private jet would have love stains on the couch and thumbprints
on the windows. “Perhaps next time,” she said. She tried to switch him off. “Gospodin Govormarenko, you are up early,” said Dominika. She would have guessed that he would be a reluctant riser, preferring the warmth of his sour, hoggish bed. He reached for a plate of golden
draniki,
folded one of the potato pancakes in half—rich mushroom sauce oozed out the end—and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Captain, I insist you call me Vasili,” he said, chewing. He looked at a ponderous Breitling wristwatch with a toffee-colored face. “The president rises early for a swim. He wishes to discuss progress regarding the Iran deal. Have you heard the latest developments?”

“I trust the news is good,” said Dominika, trying not to look at the daub of mushroom sauce on the front of Govormarenko’s sweater.

“It’s better than good,” said Govormarenko. “The powered barge transporting the cargo has cleared the Volga delta canal at Astrakhan. Transit of the Caspian to Bandar-e Anzali should take four days, weather permitting. Tehran has already deposited four hundred and fifty million euros in the Central Bank, and the remainder will be paid on delivery in five days. Nabiullina is arriving today to make a report on the transfers.”

Dominika did not look forward to seeing the chairman of the Central Bank again, the suspicious Putin favorite who questioned Dominika on how she had conceived of the water delivery route through Russia.
Suka,
bitch.

Govormarenko folded another pancake and swallowed it whole. “Thirty-seven billion rubles,” he said. “You will not have to drive to Saint Petersburg ever again, Captain.” Govormarenko sat back in his chair and looked at Dominika.

“I’m not sure I understand you, Vasili,” said Dominika.

“I’m sure you know exactly what I mean,” said Govormarenko. “Earnings for you could come to eight and a half, nine million rubles. If you want to shop in New York, that would be a quarter of a million dollars.”
Earnings. He can calculate like a machine, convert currencies in his head,
thought Dominika.
How many ways would they cut up the Persians’ money? How big would the president’s share be? It would be interesting to know where they stashed their money abroad.

“The Iran deal was an excellent example of behind-the-scenes intelligence
work supporting a commercial deal that helped Russia,” said Govormarenko, lifting his mug of beer and draining it. “We supported an important client state, we extended influence in a strategically important region, and we have boosted the prestige of the
Rodina
in the world.” There it was again:
Vranyo,
the Russian Lie.

“Helped Russia?” said Dominika. Govormarenko ignored the irony with a wave of his hand.

“You are a member of the consortium of creative partners that made it possible. And you should profit from your participation—you
will
profit. And there will be other commercial endeavors. We’ll need someone in the Service on our team.”

“And what would the director say about such an arrangement?” said Dominika.

Govormarenko shrugged. “He’s retiring soon. And Zarubina will either come in or stay out. She’s brilliant, but old school. It’s her choice.” He reached over to pat Dominika’s knee. “It’s enough to know that we have a brilliant protégée in the Center.”
This warthog is recruiting me as the oligarchs’ penetration of the Service,
thought Dominika.
Certainly with Putin’s blessing. Benford, what do you think of that? And he just confirmed that Zarubina will become the new director on her return from Washington.

“And Colonel Zyuganov?” said Dominika. “He worked with you closely to achieve these wonders. Is he part of the team?”

“It is a little different with Zyuganov,” said Govormarenko, confidentially. “The colonel could do with a course of charm school.”
It couldn’t be clearer: Zyuganov is not part of this cabal; he’s excluded. He won’t last forever,
thought Dominika.
What a useful look inside the cave—Nate and Benford would value this information.

In the next instant, three things occurred simultaneously: The majordomo rushed out onto the terrace, leaned over, and whispered into Govormarenko’s ear; four men in
militsiya
uniforms filed through the glass doors and walked up to the table; and President Putin, followed by his two mastiffs, came up a flight of steps from the pool level in his swimsuit. He was shirtless and had a towel draped around his shoulders. He looked at the policemen, then at Govormarenko, then with a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth—indicating runaway mirth, or perhaps the first heave of towering
rage—he nodded to Dominika.
He’s shirtless in a wet bathing suit and I’m wearing a cocktail dress,
she thought wearily.
And this morning a Navy SEAL called me ma’am while I was in my bra.
The sun was up now, and the ocean had turned from gray to blue, matching the pulsing blue annulus around the president’s head.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Govormarenko, speaking instead of the president.

The lead
militsiya
officer came to attention. “Orders from Headquarters, sir.”

Govormarenko stuffed another pancake into his mouth. “What orders?”

“A full search bulletin on a vehicle traveling from Moscow. A police air unit tracked it here, sir.”

“Whose car is it?” asked Govormarenko.

“It’s probably mine,” said Dominika, sipping juice from her glass. “It’s from the motor pool in Yasenevo.” The
militsiya
officer darted a look at the other cops.
Shit, she’s SVR, and the president is standing three feet away.

“And why was the bulletin issued?” said Govormarenko.

The cop shrugged. “I don’t know sir, just that Headquarters said the order was from Moscow.”

Finally the reedy voice, short and sharp. “Never mind why;
who
issued the order?” said Putin.

The cop was sweating now. “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

Putin glanced at Dominika, who was trying to lounge casually in her chair. Dominika saw that he already knew everything. “I really don’t think Captain Egorova is a fugitive,” Putin said quietly. “You men are dismissed.”