Red Sparrow полностью

The best recruitments are the ones where the agents recruit themselves, his instructor had bellowed at the Farm. Remember that, no surprises, a natural evolution, he had said. Well, this was hardly a natural evolution of the phased recruitment. Nate felt as though he had just run Class Four rapids in a bathtub.

It was an hour later and Dominika had never actually uttered, Yes, I will do it. No agent makes the decision with a handshake and a signature. Instead Nate just got her to start talking about it. He had told her, “Whatever you decide, I promise we will work safely,” which is the standard catechism when addressing agents. You mean it, but everyone—case officer and agent alike—knows that long-term survival for an agent, especially inside Russia, is unlikely. But the bland comment got a reaction.

“To do this work correctly we cannot avoid risks. We both know that,” said Dominika archly. She said “we,” thought Nate.

“And we’ll start slowly, carefully… if we decide to start at all,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Dominika. “If we decide.”

“And we’ll proceed as quickly or as slowly as you want,” said Nate.

“Your side can examine my motivaciya at their leisure. If our collaboration turns out to be unsatisfactory, I will tell you and we will agree to the okonchanie, the termination of our relationship.” They apparently had the same agent-handling cant in the SVR.

She was through the first stage. It was getting late. Dominika stood and reached for her coat. Nate helped her, watching her eyes, the corners of her mouth, her hands. Was this going to stick? They stood looking at each other for a moment. She turned to him at the door, offered her hand. He took it and said, “Spokoinoi noci,” good night, and she left quickly, making no sound in the stairwell.

After Dominika left his apartment, Nate stayed up, jotting notes, remembering what she had told him. He resisted the idiotic urge to walk to the Embassy, wake up the Station, begin writing cables to Headquarters. Recruitment. SVR officer, Sparrow cadre, her uncle runs the whole outfit, assassinations. It’s a spy movie, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t wait to get into the Station tomorrow.

His high spirits evaporated. He tossed in bed, throwing the bedclothes off. The Dead Sea fruit turned to ashes in his mouth. He had to secure the recruitment, make sure of her commitment; she could back out, a lot of agents did. When he put her in harness, he’d have Headquarters breathing down his neck. What’s her motivation? How much salary? What’s her access? What do you mean, she didn’t sign a secrecy agreement? This was very sudden. Is she a provocation?

Production. They were going to want results, fast. They would ask first for the best information she could get, and that would be dangerous. The little men in the little offices with the little beady eyes would want to validate her as a bona fide asset. Everything would be a test, they would not be satisfied until her information was corroborated, until she was “boxed,” passed a polygraph. Push her too hard, or push in the wrong direction, and they’d lose her, Nate knew that. And if he lost her after claiming a recruitment, there would be the knowing looks from Headquarters. Case was bogus from the start.

That was just the beginning. If Dominika was caught, the SVR would kill her. It didn’t matter how she was caught: a mole in Headquarters, a mistake in handling, hostile surveillance, or simply bad luck, the lights coming on with her standing in front of an open safe drawer with a rollover camera. Nate turned over in the bed.

There would be an interrogation and a trial, but they wouldn’t care about the facts. Uncle Vanya wouldn’t save her. They’d walk her, barefoot and wearing a prison smock, to the basement of the Lubyanka or Lefortovo or Butyrka. They’d push her down the hallway lined with chipped steel doors into the room with a drain in the sloping floor, and the hooks in the ceiling beams, and the stapled, waxed-cardboard coffin standing upright in the corner of the room. They’d shoot her behind the right ear even before she was halfway into the room, no warning, and they’d look at her lying facedown on the floor before picking her up, wrists and ankles, and dropping her into the cardboard coffin. That simple. That final.

ROGAN JOSH

In a mortar, roughly grind chopped onions, ginger, chili, cardamom, clove, coriander, paprika, cumin, and salt into a smooth paste. Add bay and cinnamon. Add heated clarified butter. Cook until fragrant. Add cubed pieces of lamb, stir in yogurt, warm water, and pepper. Bake in medium oven for two hours. Sprinkle with coriander.