Red Sparrow (62 page)

The FBI agents walked Boucher across the deck toward the main wing of the house. In the living room, Boucher pulled brusquely away from the restraining hand on her arm. “I told you dickheads to take your hands off me,” she said. “This is outrageous, you have no right accusing me. Where’s your evidence, where’s the proof?” She walked stiffly to the couch and sat down. There was a hairline crack in her unassailable confidence and arrogance now; she wanted to buy some time, give her lawyer time to get here. Golov’s constant yammering about security, maybe she should have paid more attention. Still, the FBI didn’t know squat. Golov was a pro, no way they could prove a thing. She did not contemplate the possibility that it was she, Boucher, who may have compromised everything. “I’m waiting for my attorney,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Senator, we have properly identified ourselves as federal officers. We have read you your rights. Do you understand these rights?” Boucher stared at him, refusing to answer. “If you do not understand these rights, I will repeat them. If you do so indicate that you understand them, and keeping these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us now?”

Boucher figured that any temporizing and delay would be in her interest. The calls to Washington and to her lawyer would soon result in a flurry of action that would string this out for months or years. Boucher told herself that if they had not caught her red-handed, they couldn’t prove shit. Allegations, flawed conclusions, unsubstantiated associations. She knew all about this kind of trench warfare. She could brawl with the best of them. She looked up at the FBI agents and said, “I’m not answering any of your questions.”

Special Agent Montgomery snapped his fingers and reached around for the briefcase. He took out a folder and laid it on the coffee table in front of Boucher. She opened the file and saw a timeline of classified briefings that she had attended at Pathfinder Satellite Corporation, and records of personal bank accounts reflecting a dozen unexplained cash deposits from unknown sources, each for exactly $9,500, totaling hundreds of thousands of
dollars. She remembered demanding mad-money payments, and how Golov tried to dissuade her. The Capitol Hill instincts in her head told her this was still circumstantial, a good lawyer could create doubts, obfuscate, keep the ball rolling. Boucher looked up at Montgomery, defiant. “Just a lot of paper. Doesn’t mean squat.”

“Senator, please take a look at the last document in the file.” Boucher flipped over the penultimate page at the bottom of the file, a brilliantly clear black-and-white photograph of a disc with the Pathfinder logo on it, white and smudged with powder. “We acquired this disc with your latent prints on it from Moscow,” said Montgomery. Boucher did not speak. The living room was quiet; muted music came from the bedroom wing, Yanni’s
Out of Silence
album with John Tesh on keyboards, Missy’s favorite. Montgomery cleared his throat and slid a one-page document, single-spaced, across the table at Boucher. It had an embossed FBI logo at the top.

“What’s this?”

“If you have understood the rights as I have explained them to you, this is a confession of guilt to the charges of espionage. Will you sign it?”

“You think I’m going to sign a confession of guilt?” Boucher could not feel that her cotton shift was hanging open. The FBI agents tried not looking down the front of her cover-up.

“You’re not being forced or coerced in any way to sign the document. I am simply offering you the option,” said Montgomery.

Among her many flaws, Stephanie Boucher did not suffer from indecision. She believed in herself and had always thought that she deserved—no, it was owed her—the success, career, wealth, and lifestyle she now enjoyed. The fierce and greedy light that burned in her had long ago fired the conviction that she would not give ground, to anyone, for anything. That meant not letting these cake-eaters arrest her, that meant not losing the power and title and respect of elected office. That meant not going away forever to prison. She would not let that happen. She looked around at their faces.

“Okay, I’ll sign,” she said abruptly. The agents looked at one another. One stepped forward and took a pen out of his pocket. It was a white plastic Skillcraft pen with
US GOVERNMENT
stenciled on the side. Boucher looked at the pen and waved it off. “Missy, get my pen from the desk,” she said. Missy had been telephoning frantically and now walked over to the couch with Boucher’s black-and-beige Montblanc Etoile.

Boucher unscrewed the cap, leaned over the paper, and scrawled something on the line at the bottom of the document. “This do it for you?” she asked. Montgomery took the document, looked at it, and smiled.

“I’m not quite sure ‘Suck my dick’ would be admissible in court. We’ll do it any way you like,” he said mildly.

“Who the hell is that guy?” she said, pointing at Nate. A moment of awkward silence, while all heads turned toward Nate.

With the agents standing around the couch distracted, Boucher replaced the cap of her pen, grasped the pearl on the end of the pocket clip, drew out the copper-colored needle, and plunged it into a vein on her left arm. Nate was the only one who saw what she had done and he leapt forward toward the couch, batting the pen out of her hand.

None of the people in Boucher’s living room had ever heard of the golden dart frog, nor did they know that the two-inch, bright-yellow leaf-sitter lived exclusively in the Pacific-coast rain forest of Colombia. An FBI toxicologist with research materials at hand could have informed them that the batrachotoxin secreted from the skin of the tiny amphibian is highly lethal to humans—a neurotoxin that locks the muscles violently into a state of contraction, causing respiratory paralysis and heart failure. It was KGB chemists in Laboratory 12, the
Kamera,
who first harvested batrachotoxin in the 1970s after they discovered that there is no antidote for the poison and that the toxicity of the compound, as on the point of a treated needle, does not dissipate when dry or over time.

The observed effects of the pinprick on Stephanie Boucher were less scientific and rather more spectacular. Her body convulsed massively, her legs involuntarily shot out straight, her toes pointed, and her limbs quivered uncontrollably. Boucher toppled flat onto the couch, her head flung back, the cords on her neck bulging, her eyes rolling white into the sockets. Nate threw himself at her to hold her down by her jerking arms. Her hands formed rigid claws at her sides and her lips were flecked with saliva. No sound came from her paralyzed larynx as she arched her back almost double. Nate cupped her chin in his hand and moved to resuscitate her. “Better not, dude,” said Proctor, the young SA, eyeing the froth that had thickened around her lips. The men in the room stood looking down at her. She thrashed twice more and was still. Her cover-up had fallen open on one side, her breast exposed. Nate leaned over and covered her.

“Jesus,” said Proctor, “you think it was the US government pen?” In the far corner of the room, Missy was whimpering. She now knew how this crazy day ended.

SHRIMP SALAD

Lightly boil peeled shrimp until tender-firm. Finely dice scallions, celery, and kalamata olives, cube feta cheese, and mix with mayonnaise, olive oil, cumin, fresh dill, and lemon juice. Add boiled shrimp, toss, and chill.

   
36   

Vanya Egorov sat
behind the desk in his darkened office. Shades were drawn across the massive picture windows, his cigarette burned unattended in the ashtray. He was looking at the soundless picture of a flat-screen television in a credenza to one side of his desk—a news outlet from America was reporting a development. A Los Angeles reporter with blond hair and pouty lips was standing in front of an ivy-covered gate on a tree-lined street. Behind him was superimposed the face of Senator Stephanie Boucher, a file photo from several years ago. The scrolling ticker of words along the bottom of the screen read, “CA lawmaker dead at forty-five of apparent heart attack.”

SWAN. The most important asset for Russian intelligence in the last five decades. Gone. Heart attack. Nonsense. It was likely she had used the suicide pen Golov had requested and which Egorov himself had authorized. This was a nightmare. Who could have guessed that the Americans would so quickly identify her as the mole? And who would have predicted, in this post–Cold War age of celebrity agents and politician spymasters, that such a drastic, such a violent—
such a Soviet
—conclusion to the SWAN case would be played out? Egorov told himself that he had a narrow window to redemption. The CIA-directed mole was responsible for this costly loss. If Egorov could unmask him, he could salvage his position.

There were at present only two options to pursue: the technical chief, Nasarenko, implicated in the canary trap, and the traitor’s CIA handler, Nash. Egorov pointed a remote control at the television to change channels. A clear color picture of Nasarenko appeared on the screen. Every second of the multiple hours of his security interviews in the interrogation chambers of Butyrka had been filmed, and Egorov was coming to the same opinion voiced by Zyuganov, that the twitchy technician was incapable of acting as a CIA internal asset. The tapes showed the beatings, the drug-induced hysterics, Zyuganov leaning over his subject wearing some sort of military jacket.
Don’t ask,
thought Vanya.

The relevant portion of the tape had been marked, and Egorov ran the counter forward to the spot. Nasarenko numbly was admitting that he had spoken of the crushing backlog of work with the Americas Department chief, General Vladimir Korchnoi. Korchnoi had offered to send him two analysts to ease the workload. Nasarenko had showed Korchnoi one of the discs during the conversation. No, he had not inventoried the discs after that conversation. Yet by the investigators’ count one disc was missing, misplaced. No, it was ridiculous to think Korchnoi would have taken one of the discs. Impossible.

Impossible?
thought Egorov.

He had known Volodya Korchnoi for nearly twenty-five years, ever since the Academy. Korchnoi had proved himself to be a superlative operations officer, adept, bold, cunning, the sort of man who could in theory excel as a clandestine asset for the CIA and survive the dangers. His foreign assignments moreover would have presented many opportunities to connect with the Americans.
Impossible,
he thought. Nasarenko would be spluttering for months, more names, more mewling explanations, more temporizing delays. Egorov would raise the idea of Korchnoi with Zyuganov, but there was no time now. The American Nash was the key. His niece was already on her way to Greece. They would see how things turned out.

Dominika marveled at the white light in the Athens air. Rome’s sunlight was golden, softer. This Aegean light weighed down on you. The buildings reflected it, the black roads shimmered in it. Downtown traffic—taxis, trucks, and motor scooters—poured in a liquid mass down Vasilissis Sofias to part, like waves against a spile, around Syntagma Square and the House of Parliament, to recede down smaller streets toward the Plaka. Dominika left her hotel and walked downhill through the buzz of Ermou Street, past shops with two-story displays of lighting fixtures, sports bags, and fur coats. Mannequins in white fox stoles stared back at her, signaling her with tilted heads and segmented wrists.
Be watchful,
they said.

Dominika worked the street hard, crossing in midblock, entering doorways, using the mirrors in the shops and in the sunglasses stores to
categorize elements on the street. Short, dark, sleeveless, mustache, dusty rubber sandals, flicking dark eyes. She smelled roasted, popping chestnuts, heard the twang of the wheeled barrel organ on the corner.
Look for the foreign face, the blue eyes, the Slav cheekbones. Look for the brown bloom, the yellow, the green, the signals of danger, deceit, or stress.

Dominika was dressed in a blue cotton dress with a square neck and black sandals. She carried a small black clutch bag and wore round sunglasses with black frames. An inexpensive wristwatch with a black face and a simple link band was on her left wrist. She wore her hair up, cooler in the midmorning heat, a blue-eyed Russian doing countersurveillance before meeting a member of the opposition.

Dominika turned off Ermou onto a side street, passing tiny storefronts displaying religious vestments, golden cassocks, stoles, and miters. Silver pectoral crosses hung on heavy chains and rotated slowly in the display windows. She was alone on these side streets, alone after one, two, three turns. Ahead of her was the little Byzantine chapel of Kapnikarea, sunken in the middle of Ermou Street, broad brick and slit windows and sloping tile roof. Dominika crossed the street, went down five steps—the level of the street in AD 1050—and entered the chapel.

The inky interior of the church was minuscule. Frescoes and icons in the ceiling arches were chipped and water stained, the spidery Byzantine letters came off as pale red to her, faded as if by eons of candle smoke and incense. Near the door was a sand table with long orange tapers, some tilted against each other. Dominika took a candle out of a nearby stack and lit it with the flame of a candle already burning in the sand tray.