Palace of Treason

12

Early evening and Nate and Dominika walked quickly from the next-to-last tram stop in Grinzing toward Heiligenstädter Park. The fluid move off the tram had not flushed any suspicious pedestrians, and their zigzag route — at one point they separated, then circled back on each other to look for a reaction — away from the station revealed no vehicles scurrying into position. Arm in arm, Dominika and Nate transitioned from “thick” — the bustle of touristic downtown Grinzing — to “thin” — the solitude of the park — and checked their status once, twice, a dozen times. They walked along the pathway, past a row of acacias with lamplight winking through the leaves. It was dead still as they turned into Steinfeldgasse — the street was gently curving and narrow, and it dead ended against the park. No coverage.

The house sat apart, close against the trees — massive, Gothic, covered totally in ivy, from entrance columns to the ragged slates on top of the square tower anchoring one side of the house. The ivy had been trimmed — hacked — from around some of the windows. The curtains were drawn and only a small light showed in an upstairs window. Nate expected to hear insane Bach being played on a pipe organ by the deformed monster in the turret. Did the Agency employ deformed monsters? he wondered. I mean, apart from the emotional ones? I’ll ask Gable.

Nate thought of the desperate refugees, soldiers, informants, sympathizers, and defectors, who must have looked up at this façade before going in to be interrogated by US Army investigators in the months after World War II, with Vienna a moonscape of tumbled bricks piled two stories high, the city awash in poisonous bootleg penicillin. Now they were going inside to meet with Simon Benford, to discuss the future, to determine whether Dominika would survive a return to Moscow. None of them wanted to lose her, like they had lost General Vladimir Korchnoi, their prize snatched away by a single sniper’s bullet; From Putin with Love.

The house had an overgrown yard, low spiked iron fence, and granite front steps worn to gentle scoops. The massive oak door had decorative wrought-iron straps across it. They stood for a second, listening to the street behind them, and to the house in front of them, then looked at each other: All quiet. They knocked and Gable opened the door, gray buzz cut fresh, eyes crinkled, forearms around each of their shoulders as he led them inside.

The lamp-lit living room was 1920s Austria — high ceilings, dark wood lintels, faded carpets, a milk-glass chandelier, and cracked leather armchairs. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across leaded windows, blocking out the orange light from the streetlamps along Heiligenstädter Park. Stag horns were mounted high on a far wall. A log popped in the immense fireplace, taking the chill out of the cool night air. A sideboard with drinks ran against the wall, and there was a wax paper — lined box with what looked like baked buns. Benford pointed to them, said they were meat-filled and delicious.

There were only four of them in the room. Simon Benford, seeing everything, surprised at nothing, amused at even less. He was characteristically rumpled, his hair uncombed, and he sat in one of the ponderous armchairs blowing cigarette smoke toward the flue in a half-hearted attempt to keep most of it out of the room. It looked as if he had slept in his nondescript black suit. A pair of glasses was pushed up onto the top of his head: Nate knew that sometime during the evening he would start looking for them, cursing.

Marty Gable, square-jawed, just arrived from Athens, slouched on a matching leather couch, legs stretched out in front of him. He wore a short khaki vest with zippers and pockets. Dominika sat next to him, leaning back, her legs crossed, dangling a flat off one bouncing foot — her personal tell — nervous, excited, impatient, perhaps uncooperative, they’d have to wait to find out. She was dressed in a beige light wool dress with a wide lizard belt — it clung to her, softened her curves in the diffused lamplight. Her face was tired and drawn from the stress of the previous evening, but behind the fatigue Nate could see the luminance of emotion from their lovemaking.

It had been nearly a year since Benford had seen her: Dominika had been proper and reserved in front of him, but Nate saw her eyes soften with affection when she greeted Gable again — Bratok, big brother. Nate was sweating it: Gable was looking at Dominika like the big brother he was to her. Fucking Gable, thought Nate. He’s picking up her postcoital glow. Gable glanced at Nate across from him in the other armchair with a five-cornered look. Benford flipped his cigarette into the fireplace and leaned forward.

“We have a lot to discuss and scant time to do it,” he said. “I would start with telling you both that I am relieved beyond measure that you survived the ambush by the Iranian team. I commend you.” He lit another cigarette.

“I will continue by saying that Dominika’s production has been superior, and we look for future reporting not only regarding her service, but on the plans and intentions of the Kremlin. Policymakers in Washington are struggling to understand the anatomy of the Russian Federation and President Putin’s impulsions. Dominika, your evolving access can vouchsafe understanding, to the extent the hammertoes in the White House and on Capitol Hill are capable of understanding anything.” He flicked cigarette ash on the carpet.

“I personally believe that the president has as his singular priority to preserve his position and exploit the emoluments that derive from his office.”

Dominika looked at Nate. “Putin wants to stay president and continue stealing money,” he said in Russian. She nodded.

Benford looked up at the ceiling. “Putin’s domestic image is impeccable, flourishing in an atmosphere of ultranationalism and fading civil liberties. This is fueled by the quite charming Russian appetite for conspiracy theories about an inimical West, and is not at all threatened either by a besieged independent press or a battered dissident movement.”

“Putin has no opposition at home,” said Nate in Russian to Dominika.

“So as long as he is the popular lord of a quiescent nation,” said Benford, “foreign misadventures, provocative sponsorship of rogue states, and warlike military gyrations — regardless of the outcome and irrespective of international condemnation — do not threaten what he holds most dear: maintaining power.”

“He can do anything he wants as long as Russians do not complain,” said Nate.

Dominika’s foot bounced in agitation. “Gospodin Benford,” said Dominika. “The only thing the president fears is angry people in the streets, like in Georgia, and in Ukraine. He does not want that, how do you say, likhoradka, in Red Square.”

“Fever,” said Nate. “He doesn’t want that fever breaking out.”

“Thank you, Dominika,” said Benford, “for confirming my suspicions. Whether it takes five years or fifteen, when it becomes too much for average Russians, they’ll kick him out of the Kremlin.”

“Dvorets v Izmene,” said Dominika under her breath.

Benford looked over at Nate, one eyebrow raised.

“Palace of Treason,” Nate said.

“Works for me,” said Gable.

“Two issues now pertain,” Benford said. “First, Dominika’s security and her ability to continue operating inside Moscow. Second, the information on the Iranian’s laptop, which is now being analyzed in Headquarters. Dominika by necessity does not need to know — cannot know — about the latter—”

“She knows,” said Nate. He was strangely calm as Benford looked over at him.

“Nathaniel, your trademark grammar notwithstanding, I have asked you before not to speak in cryptograms. What do you mean ‘she knows’?”

“I told her about the covert action. I also showed her the nuke requirements before we met Jamshidi.” Dominika had stopped bouncing her foot and was looking at Benford.

“Dominika, apologies in advance,” said Benford, who then turned toward Nate. “You briefed your asset on a covert action operation?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nate. “She had to know.” Benford did not move and Nate felt the rush of stepping off a plank into the sea. “We were face-to-face with Jamshidi — thanks to Domi — and we both had to play the part. She knows the details of what they’re hatching in Moscow to buy the seismic floor for Tehran. She’s part of that, Putin talked to her about it personally. It’s spectacular access. It’s all in my report.” Benford waved his hand in recognition. Nate plunged ahead, pointedly not looking at Gable.

“The Center is going to read about Jamshidi’s assassination, and Dominika is going to have to explain why her operation blew up on her. We suspect with relative certainty that it was Zyuganov, but she needs a cover story about how the Persians went nuts, killed their own scientist, and made a try at her. She’s skating right on the edge now.

“Zyuganov is treacherous,” Nate said. “He already has an eye on her and if he hears anything from the MOIS about a second mystery man they chased around Vienna, she’s in big trouble.”

“The Persians will not communicate with the Service,” said Dominika, “and the Center will not seek them out. Zyuganov will be focused on the business deal.”

“The business deal we need to know about if PROD is going to be able to substitute flammable support beams for the floor,” said Nate. “We all know this is an immense opportunity,” he continued, sweating. Benford’s face was a mask; he was giving nothing away. “I assessed the elements, and I tried to maximize the odds. Domi is risking her life for us, and I decided to tell her details. For her own security, she had to know.”

The room grew silent. Part of the log fell off the grate in a shower of sparks. Gable got up, popped the cap off a cold beer, brought back two of the buns, and offered one to Dominika. They were runza, like Russian pirozhki, buns filled with savory ground beef, onion, and cabbage. Her foot bobbed up and down as she munched, watching the three Americans, reading their colors. No one spoke for a full three minutes.

“Nathaniel, you display an uncharacteristic intuition,” said Benford. He got up from his chair and went to the sideboard. “I approve.”

“That’s it?” said Nate. Dominika looked over at him, eyes twinkling.

“No, it is not ‘it,’” said Benford. “The stakes are bigger than ever. And there is a unique opportunity before us. As you may have divined, this procurement by Moscow of specialty construction material for the Persians is in fact a rare opening to massively affect Iran’s nuclear program, because imports of embargoed equipment from Western sources are now routinely eschewed by Tehran. Technology supplied by Moscow would in consequence be accepted without hesitation or suspicion.”

He ran his hand over the tops of a variety of bottles, deciding what to pour. “Dominika, you will be in double danger, I am afraid, because we are going to ask you to report on President Putin, on his plans to purchase the German floor system and circumvent the sanctions against Iran. That necessarily will require that we communicate with you inside Moscow, and that you transmit frequently.” He turned toward Gable and Nate.

“I have directed a technical officer to be here, tomorrow morning at the latest. Dominika has to be trained on covcom, she has to be able to communicate instantly.”

Dominika’s foot bounced. “Excuse me, Gospodin Benford,” she said. All eyes turned toward her. “I understand the need for communications, and I will do it. But I would not like one of your satellite systems, the kind you assigned to General Korchnoi.” Korchnoi had used satellite burst transmissions to Langley right up until the day he was arrested. Letting the equipment fall into the Russians’ hands had been part of Benford’s plan to give credence to his capture, and to confer credit onto Dominika.

“Your concerns are understandable, but unfounded,” said Benford. “These systems are immensely secure. I want to issue one to you.” The two case officers — Nate and Gable — looked at each other: They would have gone in more softly, worked gently to get her to agree. They knew how Dominika reacted to authority.

“Mozhet byt, perhaps,” said Dominika. “But our signals service — FAPSI — is now looking at your satellites and ways to intercept their transmissions — they are experimenting, how do you say, treugol’nik — throughout Moscow. Lines T and KR are focused on this. Korchnoi’s arrest convinced them to concentrate.”

“Triangle?” said Nate. “You mean they are triangulating?” Dominika nodded. Another compartmented stream of counterintelligence intelligence — signals countermeasures in metropolitan Moscow, thought Nate. From the expression on Gable’s and Benford’s faces, the same thought had simultaneously occurred to them. Benford stood up and started pacing.

“We absolutely need you to communicate reliably,” said Benford, an edge creeping into his voice. The blue halo around his head was intense. Dominika looked over to Nate for support.

“What about short range agent communications?” said Nate. “Domi can send SRAC messages to Moscow Station, or to a base station, or to a ground sensor anywhere in the city. Two-way encryption, three second bursts, low watts: If we do it right, the exchanges are impossible to anticipate, impossible to detect. She just has to get into line-of-sight.”

Benford scowled at him, but he knew it was a solution. “What about it?” Benford said turning to Dominika. “Did you understand what Nate just said?”

Dominika shrugged. “Our Service has similar equipment, what you call SRAC,” she pronounced it “shrek” instead of “shrack.” “What I do not understand, Neyt will explain,” she said. Gable looked at her, then at Nate, reading the pheromones. Fucking Gable.

“All right,” said Benford, nodding to Gable. “Get the techs going on it. We’ll have to sweat the drop in Moscow, but I want her to have SRAC as soon as possible.”

“You got it,” said Gable.

“One thing more,” said Benford. “I want you to stay up all night if you have to, work with Dominika on an exfiltration plan. We have another full day, no more, then she will be expected back at the Center. Tell Headquarters I want to issue her a secure exfil route. Tell them to send out the binder on Red Route Two. Brief her on it till she has it cold. I do not anticipate, nor will I accept, the possibility of an operational misstep, but if the unthinkable occurs, if she has to run, I want her to have the best escape route we own.” He picked up a bottle and looked at the label, then looked up at Dominika.

“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 a 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,” said Benford. “ ‘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 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 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 one 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?”

“Equilibrium,” said Nate. He saw where this was going, and it scared him, because he was thinking the same thing.

“Yes, equilibrium. Balance. I did not feel that before, now we have it. I need it.” She put her hands on his shoulders, and dug her nails in softly. She looked coyly at him. “I need you.”

“Last night. Last night was wonderful…,” said Nate. “But you can’t work inside if we’re having an affair. We need focus, calculation, a clear—”

“Bozhe, Oh God,” said Dominika. “I am having an affair, I cannot go back inside. Gore mne, woe is me!”

“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake,” said Nate.

“Dushka, listen to me,” said Dominika. “What we have, it makes things stronger, it makes me stronger. There is nothing wrong in this. Bratok is wrong, you all are wrong.”

“How do you know what Bratok thinks?” said Nate.

“Because she’s smart and you’re a dumb ass,” said Gable, standing beside them in the gloom, a blanket wrapped around him like a Plains Indian. They both jumped: Neither of them had heard him come up the creaky stairs.

“And I am right about what you think, Bratok?” said Dominika, unembarrassed, turning toward him and tugging the blanket more snugly around his shoulders. Just like a little sister would, thought Nate.

“You know what I think, and you both know the reasons why. No one can operate at peak performance with an emotional attachment to his agent” — Gable nodded to Nate — “or to her handling officer. Especially in a denied area like Moscow. You two think it over.” He rubbed his hair and turned down the hall to his room. He suddenly stopped and came back to them.

“I want you both to be prepared for the black days ahead, maybe for the blackest day in your lives. Nash, I want you to be ready for the day we leave Domi behind in an airport terminal, or on a train platform, or at a border crossing, surrounded by FSB, without a backward glance, because we have to, because somehow, there’re bigger stakes. And you” — he pointed his chin at Dominika — “I want you to be prepared for the day you knowingly let Dreary over here walk into a surveillance ambush in some provincial capital and get thrown in prison for twenty years because there’s someone more important than Nash at risk and you can’t tip your hand.”

“Bratok, what did you call him?” said Dominika.

“Dreary,” said Gable. Dominika looked at Nate.

“Grustnyi, melancholy,” said Nate, shaking his head. Dominika laughed. Both Nate’s and Gable’s purple hazes floated in the low light of the hallway, a little alike, but different. Something in the house creaked. Gable hitched the blanket a little higher on his shoulders.

“I want you to be ready for the day one or both of you realize you won’t see each other ever again, for the rest of your lives.”

Dominika sighed. “All right, Bratok. Thank you for being prepyatstvie, how do you say this?”

“An obstacle,” said Nate.

“You mean ‘cock blocker,’” said Gable. “I can only hope.”

“Jesus Marty, we didn’t plan it, it just happened,” said Nate. He felt stupid and lacking.

Gable shook his head. “I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.”

Dominika turned, opened the bedroom door, looked back at the two men, and went inside. She left the door slightly ajar, itself a message: I’m here, your choice.

“Come downstairs with me and have a brandy,” said Gable. He nodded at the door. “Then you can do what you want.”

Gable shrugged off his blanket, threw a log on the dying fire, and poured two brandies. He looked at his watch, a chunky Transocean Breitling, and rubbed his face. He pulled two thick black cigars out of the button flap pocket of his safari shirt, stuck one in his mouth, and tossed the other to Nate.

Gable nipped off the end of the cigar with his teeth, spit it into the fire — or pretty close to it — and puffed it alight with a battered stainless Ronson lighter, enveloping his head and shoulders in a greasy cloud of smoke. He tossed the lighter to Nate, who noticed it was embossed with a spear point insignia.

“Yeah, OSS logo, from World War Two,” said Gable, puffing and looking at his ash end. “Some overwrought bureaucrat in Headquarters thought it would be romantic and adapted it for our clandestine service logo. Should’ve rounded off the spear tip and made it a butt plug.”

Nate lit his cigar, which, despite the dark black wrapper, was surprisingly mild. His experience with cigars was limited, and he hoped he wouldn’t keel over after the third puff. No one said anything for a full two minutes.

“I know Forsyth has talked to you about this shit,” said Gable. “And I’m blue in the face talking at you.” Nate knew he was not supposed to say anything. Indeed, his job now, in this room, for the next hour, was to shut up.

“Nash, the most important person in your so-called professional life right now is upstairs in that bedroom, doing her kugel exercises under the covers, waiting for her lover boy case officer to tiptoe through the door.”

Nate blew smoke up at the ceiling like Gable had just done. Jaunty. “Marty, kugel is a noodle casserole. The word you want is ‘kegel’ exercises.”

Gable stared at him, his cigar clenched between his teeth, and Nate resolved not to speak again unless spoken to. “She is the most important thing,” Gable repeated. “On one level, she’s a valuable piece of property, an asset of the fucking CIA with nearly unlimited access, and we got to protect that asset and make sure she’s productive, because this is all about national security.

“On another level, she’s a smart, tough woman who’s on a mission to ruin all those assholes who’ve fucked with her. She’s a Russian, and a little volatile, we all know that, but she’s committed. That’s a self-propelled howitzer up there, and if you’re a smart handler, you capitalize — no, you exploit — her motivations.” He puffed twice and flicked the ash in the general direction of the crackling fireplace.

“MARBLE was the best, and Domi might be even better, if she survives. And her survival — that translates into keeping her focus, making the right decisions, not losing her motivation — is materially jeopardized whenever the two of you take off your underpants and go at it like two angry camels in a tiny car.” Nate willed himself to be still.

“We’re starting a new phase in the operation, and DIVA is going to have to move in directions few Russian agents have ever tried. Unprecedented fucking access: Can you imagine an agent close to Stalin? Never. But Domi’s caught the eye of Putin, and we want to know what that fucker has under his fingernails. And if we can screw up the Iranian nuke program the stakes get even higher.” Gable got up and poured another brandy, then held up the bottle. Nate waved him off, and Gable sat back down.

“So for instance, Domi goes back in and reports that Putin made a pass at her, wants her to spend a weekend with him at one of those dachas. What do you, her handler, instruct her to do? Tell me.” Nate stared at him. The lead elements of cigar and brandy had arrived in Nate’s head, and he tried to order his thoughts.

“Shut up,” said Gable as Nate opened his mouth. “I’ll tell you what you tell your agent. You review the intelligence requirements with her so she knows what tidbits to elicit in his bed. You let her read the bio profile on Putin by the OMS shrinks so she knows how many sugars he likes in his morning-after cup of tea. And you make sure she brings an extra pair of undies in case he rips the first pair.” Gable took a swig of brandy and a puff of cigar, leaned forward, and lowered his voice.

“And when she comes home with the smell of his aftershave still in her hair, eyes puffy from three days of Vladimir, you’re there to debrief her, and tell her what a shit-hot job she did, without a trace of irony, or judgment, or inflection, because she done her job, and you done your job, and there’s more to do, so clear the decks and get busy.” Gable leaned back in his armchair and puffed. “Sound like what you want to do, I mean, professionally?”

Nate closed his eyes. “I guess love doesn’t come into it?”

Gable smiled. “Not with a valuable agent, it don’t. It’s old school, Nash — an old-time division chief, a real baron, once told me that case officers should never get married, too distracting.”

“And you never got married?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So what, you were married or not?”

Gable shrugged. “Yeah, for a little while.”

Nate put down his brandy snifter. “And you’re going to tell me about it?”

“Fuck no,” said Gable.

“You’ve been wailing on me since I’ve known you,” said Nate. “How about throwing a bone? Tell me.” Two born manipulators, working on each other.

Gable stared into the fire. “Married young, both of us, thought she could handle the life, the travel, the nights out, but it was too much for her, she didn’t get that the job swallows you whole — funny, because she was a pianist, playing was her whole life. I didn’t know Lizst from Listerine, but the music was okay, when we weren’t fighting. The second tour was Africa, and her piano wouldn’t stay in tune until we lifted the lid and found a king cobra inside it; she wanted to live in Paris and Rome, but I dragged her to Manila and Lima instead, and she definitely didn’t like the rape gate on the bedroom door or the shotgun in the closet. We fought like two scorpions in a brandy glass, trying to hurt each other, until she packed up and left, and we didn’t get a second chance because back home she skidded on some ice and went off the road into a river, twenty-five years old, used to like listening to her play that Chopin, and two nights after she died, I was meeting a hitter from Shining Path in the port district of Lima, but the douchebag brought a knife to a gunfight, and I cancelled his ticket, and as I was going through his pockets a radio in a window somewhere was playing Chopin like she used to, and I stood over the guy and had to wait a couple minutes before my vision cleared, but that was a coincidence, because I don’t think about her much anymore.”

Marty Gable, Chopin, and Shining Path, thought Nate, Jesus. “I didn’t know about that, Marty. I’m sorry.”

Gable shrugged. “A long time ago, sort of where you are now. Only I didn’t have a fucking sensitive mentor like you got. Now all you need is to listen to my goddamn wisdom, grow some brains, and act like a top pro.”

“What happens to two scorpions in a brandy glass?” said Nate.

Gable flipped the soggy cigar butt into the fire, and drained his drink. “They can’t get traction so they get face-to-face, lock pincers, and sting each other over and over. They’re immune to their own venom. It’s a fucking metaphor for marriage.”

Sauté chopped onions and pureed garlic until soft. Season, add fresh dill and fennel (or caraway) seed. Add ground beef and brown, then mix in shredded cabbage, cover, and cook until the cabbage is wilted. The mixture should be fairly dry. Roll out bread dough into five-inch squares, cover centers with filling, fold corners over, and seal the edges. Bake in a medium oven until golden brown.