The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

“I suppose you’re right,” said Dominika. “Let’s see what we find.”

Iosip Blokhin had not appeared anywhere in Istanbul during the disastrous failure of OBVAL. There had been a firefight between TNP shock troops and PKK cell members barricaded in a private house in the historic Rumelihisari neighborhood on the Bosphorus that had been fierce and prolonged, suggesting that the normally unsophisticated PKK terrorists had received tactical advice from a professional. A police picket line in the woods around the house detained a stocky man making his way through the trees as the shooting began tapering off, and he was taken into custody in the police precinct house in Arnavutköy on the basis that he had no identification.

When the burly man in East Bloc English claimed he was a Russian diplomat and demanded to see a consulate official, the police lieutenant called the coordinating captain (it was Hanefi), who in turn called his American friend Nathaniel Nash and offered him the opportunity to speak to the Russian who the Turks strongly suspected was a professional soldier. Hanefi said he could give Nash an hour alone with the Russian before Russian dips arrived to spring him. Nate accepted and quickly called Benford to say this had to be Blokhin who, Dominika was sure, had killed the two women and two cops in New York, her North Korean asset, and her Sparrow in Vienna.

“Go hard on this ape,” said Benford. “Pitch him—your cover’s blown to these Bolsheviks anyway—and tell him we know what he did. Say we got him on Hilton Hotel security cameras, to protect DIVA. Tell the son of a bitch the next time he shows a hair of his ass outside Russia, we’ll extradite him to New York to stand trial for the dissident’s murder,” said Benford. “Burn him so badly he’ll be useless to them from now on.”

“It’s highly unlikely, but what if he’s ready to play ball? How high are you willing to go to get him in harness?” said Nate.

“Three years substantively working in place inside, he gets one million dollars. He wants out now, he’ll get two hundred fifty thousand dollars after a meaningful debriefing in the United States. Money contingent on production—the usual. See if that shakes his tree. Get something solid from him as a sign of good faith before you agree to anything,” said Benford.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him tonight and let you know,” said Nate. “I’m prepping for the meet tomorrow with Domi. I’ll get over there early and get things set up for Marty. When’s he get in?”

“He’s not coming,” said Benford, thinly. “I had to send him to Sudan; a wheel came off in Khartoum Station.”

“Marty’s not coming?” said Nate, his stomach flipping.

“I trust you heard me, unless your ears were affected by the blood rushing to your lower extremities,” said Benford.

“Gable is DIVA’s primary handler,” said Nate.

“And you are her backup officer,” said Benford. “You know how this works, Nash. You debrief her, review commo and sites, make sure she is operating safely. Did you receive the requirements cable?”

“It came in this morning,” said Nate.

“Then go and do your job,” said Benford. “And endeavor not to ruin the asset with your beastly manner. Or do I have to come out there myself?”

“No, I’ll handle it,” said Nate. “You’ll get a wrap-up cable when we’re done.”

“Good hunting,” said Benford, hanging up.

Blokhin was in a small gray interrogation room at the police station that was bare except for two metal chairs. Hanefi met Nate outside the door and they took turns looking at him through the peephole.

“Bir esek oglu,” muttered Hanefi. A son of a donkey. “Nate bey, he looks dangerous. Dikkatli ol, be careful. Do you want a man in the room?” Nate shook his head. “Tabanca?” A pistol?

“No. I want to squeeze him and don’t want him to lose face. But if you hear me screaming, come in and shoot him,” said Nate.

“I am thinking he is in Istanbul for organizing the cells,” said Hanefi. “With no diplomatic papers we put him in Silivri Prison for twenty years, but because Ankara fears trouble with Moscow, he is free after you finish with him. Iyi sanslar, Nate bey, good luck.”

Nate pulled open the door and stepped into the room, which was dimly lighted by a single bare bulb. Blokhin stood in a corner, leaning against the wall, his tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. There was a bruise under his right eye, probably a corrective love tap from a TNP jailor who didn’t like Russians. Nate sat in one of the chairs and slid the other chair a foot toward Blokhin, an invitation to sit, but the sergeant remained standing. Nate knew he was unlikely to find this guy’s buttons, but there was nothing to lose. A brief bio on Blokhin had been spun up, but there wasn’t much.

“Sergeant Iosip Blokhin,” said Nate in fluent Russian. “Congratulations on the sharada, the charade of last night. I thought Spetsnaz was better than that.” Blokhin stared at him.