Palace of Treason

35

Zyuganov sat in his office with three officers from the SVR administrative and security sections. The shrouded body of Yevgeny had been carried out on a canvas stretcher a half hour ago, and Zyuganov had foamed at the mouth while describing to the men how Yevgeny had been in league with the CIA mole he, Zyuganov, was minutes away from apprehending. Yevgeny was doubtless a subagent dishing information to the opposition and, when confronted by Zyuganov, had panicked and made a move to attack his boss.

“Attack? With what?” said one of the security men. Not even Zyuganov’s reputation as a wet boy executioner, inheritor of the speckled majesty of the Vozhd, the multilimbed monster that lent its name to Uncle Joe Stalin, could confer immunity in the case of unjustified murder committed inside the walls of the Center. To be sure, justification could come in the space of a fifteen-second, exculpating phone call from the Kremlin, or in the microsecond after the triumphant arrest of the CIA mole in their midst, thought Zyuganov.

“With this instrument,” said Zyuganov, holding up a half-inch, curved surgical needle. “He was trying to slash me.”

“How is it you have such a thing in your office, sir?” said one of the men.

“What difference at this point does it make?” said Zyuganov, pounding his fist. The white phone on his desk trilled — the secure high-frequency Vey-Che line. It was the SVR chief in Saint Petersburg calling to report that one of the militia helicopters reported a signal to the southeast of the city, in a vector essentially along the line of the M10 from Moscow; Zyuganov checked his watch: four thirty. It had to be Egorova coming up from Moscow; they’d have her in the bag within the hour. Zyuganov barked orders that police and militia vehicles be directed to converge on the M10, setting up on all exits to the A120, the outer ring road just after the town of Tosno. He put the phone down and looked at the three zadnitsi, these three admin assholes, knowing they’d heard every word, and told them to get out of his office. They hesitated, then rose to leave, but the security man mumbled something about continuing the interview at another time. Yes, your dismissal-from-the-service interview when I’m deputy chief, thought Zyuganov, his brain buzzing with excitement.

He had not considered before now that as deputy of SVR he would be able to compile and maintain a list of people who displeased, angered, or otherwise annoyed him. He could have video feeds from the cellars at Lefortovo and Butyrka piped into his office. He would be driven to the Kremlin to have tea with the president. He shivered deliciously as he recalled the sound of dropped melon and the yielding resistance of bone when he had hit Yevgeny with the steel baton. He thought of the sights and sounds that would accompany the upcoming interrogations of Egorova and Solovyov. Then the phone trilled again.

“Goose chase,” the Petersburg chief said over the phone. “The air unit went right down on the deck as signal strength increased, and almost got sucked into the pressure wave of the Sapsan high-speed train from Moscow. The bastard runs at two hundred and fifty kilometers an hour.”

Zyuganov swore. “What about the signal?” he said.

“No cars on the road,” said the chief. “I woke up the Rail Ministry; the engine has a transponder in the nose to track the train. The helicopter was homing in on that. Lucky they didn’t fly into—”

“What the fuck is the train doing on the track at four in the morning?” raved Zyuganov. “It’s supposed to be in Petersburg at midnight.”

“I asked about that too,” said the chief. “Five-hour departure delay in Moscow. Something on the tracks in the middle of nowhere. It’s bad luck. The helicopter is returning to the field to check for damage. I can tell you the pilot was really shaken.”

“Fuck the pilot,” yelled Zyuganov. “I want that bastard to continue to search. Find that car, I know she’s out there.” Zyuganov banged down the phone. Sapsan, a peregrine falcon chasing a Sparrow, eto prosto pizdets, this is totally, elementally, fucked up.

When Dominika heard the helicopter thrashing around in the night sky somewhere to the south she forgot everything, ran around the car, and stuffed the last of the equipment into the kit bag. She took the docile general by the elbow and helped him over the rocks to the small sandy beach, willing the rubber raft to hurry, hoping that the old man would get off this beach, willing the helicopter to stay away. According to the exfil drill, Dominika helped the general off with his topcoat, which she also stuffed into the kit bag. In Athens there had been discussion of leaving LYRIC’s shoes and coat on the beach, eventually to be found and to suggest that the desperate fugitive had committed suicide by walking into the sea, but Dominika had convinced Benford that this would be inostrannyy, too foreign, un-Russian. Better that he should dematerialize without a trace.

The rubber raft grounded on the beach, the man stepped over the rubber gunwale, and Gary Cooper walked toward them — at least that’s what the six-foot-two Navy SEAL looked like to Dominika. Petty Officer Second-Class Luke Proulx of SEAL Team Two was dressed in black Nomex overalls and carried a stubby matte black MP7 submachine gun across his chest on a one-point sling. As he approached Dominika and the general he pulled a knit watch cap off his head. Of course he would have blond hair, thought Dominika. And a red halo that turned the color of chilled rosé in the moonlight. Naturally.

“General. Ma’am,” said Proulx in unaccented Russian. “Good morning.” Perfect Russian, and of course he would also have blue eyes, thought Dominika, only then realizing she was in her underwear — Simone Perele from Paris, but still… The SEAL didn’t give the faintest indication that he saw her nakedness.

“I heard a helicopter a minute ago,” said Dominika, resolved not to be embarrassed. “You must leave immediately.” Petty Officer Proulx nodded, put his cap back on, and took the kit bag from Dominika.

“Ready, sir?” he said, shifting his weapon and moving to the rubber raft. Without his coat, General Solovyov was shivering in the cool night air. He turned to Dominika, stood straight, and saluted. He silently mouthed Spasibo, thank you, then turned and climbed into the raft, which the SEAL had pushed off the sand and was holding steady in shallow water. Luke Proulx looked back at Dominika, smiled, and whispered Udacha, good luck. He bounded into the raft, started the silent motor, and headed out for the wallowing black log of the submarine in the moon path. Dominika was shivering now too as she watched the silver bow wave spread in a vee across the flagstone sea. She was astounded to register a “Hey, wait for me” shout stuck behind her lips, but knew she would never be able to go.

“Stupay s Bogom,” she whispered. Go with God. She turned quickly and clambered over the rocks, then dove into her suitcase in the open trunk of her car. Dress over her head — a gray scrunched tunic drape cocktail number — pointed toe Fendi stilettos onto her feet — she had to wipe her soles clean of sand — a string of onyx stone beads around her neck. She slammed the trunk and got inside the car, smoothing her upswept hair and putting on a touch of lipstick. She wanted the effect of arriving at the Strelna mansion as if she had been driving all night, dressed somewhat inappropriately for a breakfast buffet, or whatever beastly Fall-of-Rome entertainment these kabany, these tusker boars who ran her country, who lounged and ate and drank and stole Russia’s wealth out of the mouths of her people, had in mind, providing, of course, that the Tsar approved.

She looked out at the empty ocean; the silver sea was flat. The vessel had slipped beneath the waves, the Rusalki mermaids had gotten their man. Perhaps now the spirits of Udranka and Marta and Hannah could rest — how Hannah would have enjoyed this early-morning operation on this pebbly beach. Dominika gripped the steering wheel and fought fatigue, emotion, longing. She longed for Nate, to see him and talk to him, and to have him take her in his arms and just hold her — at least for a while before they fell into bed. The sound of helicopter rotors was audible somewhere in the distance, growing louder, and Dominika started moving fast down the beach road — headlights out, Don’t clip one of the boulders, I hope it’s too dark to see a dust plume — and squealed onto the A121 back toward Petersburg, past the dark palaces, no traffic at five a.m. and her mirrors were clear.

The rotor noise was louder as she pulled into the entrance to the Constantine Palace and Strelna conference facility. The gate guard looked into the sky as he walked around to her window and shone the light in her eyes.

“Get that light out of my face,” snapped Dominika. “Captain Egorova of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the SVR. I’m expected.”

Sitting in the SWCS was like being a fragile and somewhat insignificant component in a cramped steel tube stuffed with conduit and pipes and cable ties and digital displays. Petty Officer Proulx had helped LYRIC squeeze through a hatch on the dorsal surface of the SWCS and eased him into a nylon webbing seat, buckled a harness over his shoulders and across his stomach, then released a latch and slid the seat on tracks backward to click and lock against stops in the third position. After pulling the sea cocks on the raft — once inflated it could not possibly fit back into the submersible — and watching it settle underwater by the heavier stern, Proulx slipped through the hatch and into the second seat, putting the MP7 on safe and stowing his weapon in a scabbard beneath his seat. He stuffed the bag with the exfil equipment in a side locker, then hit a toggle to close the hatch, which he then manually dogged with a hand crank. Their ears popped as the hatch sealed shut and the cabin pressurized.

Proulx turned in his seat — no easy feat in the cramped space — and took a pair of headphones off a small hook and handed them to the general. He put on his own headset and adjusted the bud mike across his cheek.

“You okay, sir?” said Proulx. The general nodded and whispered “Da” into the mike. Proulx passed a plastic squeeze bottle he took out of a becket on the side of the seat. “Here, sir, drink this. It gets pretty hot and dry in here.” The mildly fruit-flavored water had a low dose of benzodiazepine to reduce anxiety, relax the muscles, and make sleep possible. The “benzo cocktail” was standard kit for maritime exfil ops.

“Better than the motherfucking wet pig boats we had to drive before,” said Master Chief Petty Officer Mike Gore over the headset, sitting ahead of Proulx in the nose. The hulking and dyspeptic Chief Gore was at the controls. “C’mon, let’s get out of here, shallow water gives me the shits,” he said. The men were sitting like a three-man bobsled crew, in single file, legs slightly bent, knees against the backs of the seats ahead. There was a sound of gurgling water that enveloped them, and a slight sensation of sinking. The only ghostly light in the stuffy compartment came from LED displays.

“General, you want to listen to a little music?” said Proulx into his mike. “How about some Tchaikovsky?” It had been Benford’s suggestion that they have Russian classical music on hand, music that could be silenced if the boat’s sonar detected surface units anywhere nearby. The SWCS perceptibly started moving forward, a small hum came from the engine compartment bulkhead behind their seats, and the entire submersible suddenly banked like an aircraft and took a steep vertigo-inducing downward angle. Fifteen minutes later, Proulx glanced at a small piece of polished metal attached to the overhead like a rearview mirror and saw that LYRIC’s head was back against the padded headrest, his eyes closed. Proulx switched off LYRIC’s headset and reached forward, tapping Master Chief Gore on the shoulder.

“So the landing zone is clear and this angel in her underwear is on the beach with the old guy — I mean Ingrid Bergman meets Jane Russell. Couldn’t be true, Master Chief, shit, I expected Spetsnaz to come out of the sea grass.” Gore grunted into his mouth mike.

“Proulx, the next hop, you sit offshore, and I’ll take the inflatable in. Fucking CIA running porn stars in Russia. I gotta get a job with them.” The two SEALs were silent for a few minutes. “The old guy okay?” said Gore. Proulx nodded.

“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 a single room with a dirt floor, 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 Gucci leather 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 governor 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 protégé 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.”

Seb Angevine put his feet up on the desk and admired his Crockett & Jones oxfords from London, £350, $600, hand-stitched by some Bob Cratchit specifically for him. His suit coat hung on a hanger behind his closed office door, charcoal gray lightweight wool by Brioni, £4,500 or $6,000, which was accented admirably by his dark blue seven-fold silk tie from Marinella in Naples, two hundred dollars.

Seb was killing time before his secretary left for the day so he could set up the little Chobi Camera — this one was Gamma — and fast scroll cables on his desktop monitor while the camera was recording on high-res video. Tonight would be special: He would capture a finance office payment roster with the true names of the most sensitive assets in the CIA stable. Angevine didn’t care who they were — they all should know there was risk being a spy, they had to take their chances. Hell, he was taking a risk spying for the Russians. But the only really important name, the one Zarubina would pay him one million dollars for, was the Russian name on the list. After Muriel poked her head in to say good night, Seb took out the segmented, bendy mini-tripod, screwed the camera onto the mount, made sure the camera was oriented correctly, and started the video function. Angevine fast scrolled about fifty cables, then stopped. On instinct he swept the tripod and tiny camera into an open desk drawer just as there was a knock on his door and the elephantine face of Gloria Bevacqua, the director of the Clandestine Service, peered around the corner.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she said, stepping inside the office. Her dirty-blond hair in a short bob showed dark roots and was sticking out in back. She wore a tangerine pantsuit of Orlon or rayon with dirty sleeves and a dried stain high on the left shoulder, as if she had been burping a baby that had spit up milk.

Yes, I’ve been copying hundreds of classified cables off the Agency’s secure cable system to deliver to Moscow tomorrow night for a seven-figure payment, the result of which hopefully will decimate your ability to manage the Clandestine Service. “No, Gloria.” said Angevine. “What can I do for you?”

Bevacqua left a few minutes later, huffy that Angevine had declined to serve on a newly formed administrative review panel she was organizing. She needed senior-officer filler to serve on the commission and thought asking Angevine personally would compel him to agree. No such luck, you slob, Angevine thought. Allez au charbon, go back to your sty.

Angevine set his camera up again and started scrolling. He left the finance asset roster for the last, and scrolled down at normal speed, reading it carefully. There it was, his million-dollar baby. He checked twice; it was the only recognizable Russian name. Huh, a woman, he thought. Can that be right?

Dominika Vasilyevna Egorova. Angevine memorized the name. Wonder if she’s hot. Not for long, after Zarubina gets the name.

Grate peeled potatoes and onions, the add raw egg, salt, and flour to make a thick batter. Spoon a small dollop of batter into hot oil and fry until golden brown. Serve with mushroom sauce made by processing sautéed diced onions and mushrooms with sour cream and heavy cream. Simmer the processed puree (do not boil) with additional heavy cream and garnish with chopped parsley.