The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

At no time did Shlykov mentally connect the massive operational flap culminating in running police shootouts at twenty locations in the city with any singular, personal failure in tradecraft, comsec, or planning. He was rarely burdened by introspection. Now this ridiculous Egorova had arrived to conduct a preposterous investigation on some nonsense about transmissions, and the timing ensured she would be here to witness his humiliation. He had been ordered to remain in Istanbul until the postmortem of OBVAL was complete.

The interview with a scowling Shlykov seated at a table in the rezidentura secure room developed nicely: Valeriy reacted angrily when asked about the mysterious transmissions, claimed not to know any Americans in town, and dismissed as ridiculous the existence of clandestine signals near his apartment. The FSB officers present looked at one another skeptically. Things got more interesting when Shlykov flatly refused to let the FSB “donkeys” search his apartment. The yellow halo around his head, bleached by rage and pulsing with fright, told Dominika a lot. His fear of career disintegration was eclipsed by his bol’shoe samomnenie, his self-importance, and his outrage at being challenged and questioned, especially by a woman. He’ll hang himself with that ego, Dominika thought. This would be easier than she expected.

“This is an uncomfortable situation for us all,” said Dominika equably. “I personally regret the need to interview a fellow colleague from the GRU.”

“Then fly back to Moscow and leave me to my work,” said Shlykov. “I have critical operational tasks, which you should realize take precedence.” He glared at Dominika with the disdain of privileged Soviet Golden Youth.

“Yes, well, the police shootouts in this city with your terrorist protégés seem to suggest that your critical operational tasks have not been totally successful; in fact, they were unrelievedly disastrous,” said Dominika. “They almost certainly may yet prove to be damaging to the Russian Federation and embarrassing to the president.” In the silence that followed, every Russian in that interview room knew that damaging the country was by far the lesser delinquency.

“I’ll attend to the operations,” said Shlykov, seething. He decided to add a towering insult. “Why don’t you concentrate on what you do best: filming yourself seducing men?”

“I suggest you take a less defiant line,” said Dominika. “It is unfortunate.” The FSB men heard something in her voice that made them shift in their seats. Shlykov seemed not to register the danger.

“There are anomalies that correspond to your movements,” said Dominika. “I trust they will amount to nothing, but I am here to confirm that there are no counterintelligence issues.”

“Do you think I’m working for the Americans?” Shlykov shouted. “You’re ridiculous, Po’shyol ’na hui, fuck off.” He stood and loomed over Dominika.

“I advise you to sit down and cooperate,” said Dominika, looking up at him. Shlykov bent over her, and stuck his face in hers. The FSB men sat on the edge of their chairs.

“Your reputation precedes you,” said Shlykov. “The wonder girl with the big sis ’ki, the well-titted-out prostitute trained to suck off—”

Dominika’s hand shot out and grabbed Shlykov’s jutting bottom lip between forefinger and thumb, and pulled down hard. The major grunted with the pain and went to his knees. Dominika twisted his lip and slammed his head against the edge of the table. Shlykov sat on the floor and held his head. His lip had already swelled and gone purple, and his right eye was closed.

“Consider yourself confined to the rezidentura,” said Dominika, standing. “You can sleep on the duty-officer cot. A security officer will be with you at all times.” She turned to the FSB men.

“Get the keys to Comrade Shlykov’s residence, both front door and apartment,” she said. “I want to go there now.”

At the apartment, the FSB bloodhounds did Dominika’s work for her—she didn’t have to prompt them at all. In fact, she praised their diligence. They gathered all the papers in Shlykov’s desk drawer and found the suitcase under the bed and showed Colonel Egorova the telltale marks on the lid, suggesting some tampering. They hefted the big wooden chessboard they found on the upper shelf in the front closet, shook their heads, and were going to leave it.

Dominika shrugged, pulled out more drawers, and rummaged around the closet. “Strange,” she said. “Have you found chess pieces, a chess set?” The FSB men looked around, shook their heads, and suggested they take the chessboard back to the consulate and examine it under the fluoroscope used to screen incoming mail and packages. Dominika looked doubtful.

“Very well,” she said. “It’s better to check, to be thorough.”

“Bez truda, ne vitashis i ribku iz ruda,” said one of the FSB men loftily, without effort you won’t pull a fish out of a pond.