The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

“It’s hard to imagine you going along with such a half-baked plan, but that’s GRU for you—amateurs,” said Nate. Blokhin didn’t move. Push another button.

“Of course you’ll be blamed for the unsatisfactory operation,” said Nate. “No one in the Kremlin, or the Security Council, or the General Staff will support you. Major Shlykov will cast you aside, like the pack animal he thinks you are. They may even cashier you out of Spetsnaz. What group are you in? Alpha or Vympel?” Blokhin uncrossed his arms, pushed off from the wall, and stood behind the metal chair looking down at Nate. He slowly sat down, back straight, hands on his thighs. Nate braced for a lunge.

“You are CIA?” Blokhin asked. His voice was like gravel poured out of a bucket.

“If they kick you out of Spetsnaz, what will you do in Moscow?” said Nate, ignoring the question. “Become a driver on a city tram? Collect tickets at Dynamo Stadium? Do you have a family to feed? Parents?” Come on big boy, tell me something, anything.

“You come from Washington?” asked Blokhin, tilting his head as if Nate had blown a dog whistle.

“Washington is close to New York City,” said Nate. “Ever been there? Ever been to the Hilton on Sixth Avenue?” Blokhin’s face was impassive but his pupils dilated.

“What do you want?” said Blokhin, sitting back in his chair. An opening? Work it.

“We both serve our countries loyally, sometimes endure hardships, but in your system there are no rewards except the pride you take in having served. But that will be gone when you return to the Rodina. They will take that away from you in the space of a deep breath.” Blokhin said nothing.

“We are not enemies,” Nate said, with a straight face. “We are both soldiers, in different uniforms perhaps, but we both understand loyalty. In America we value loyalty and friendship, and repay it. Our soldiers retire with benefits, and live in comfort.”

“What do you want?” Blokhin repeated.

“I have a proposal, a way for you to reap the benefits you have earned. Something for you, apart from Russia, and Spetsnaz, and Shlykov.” Blokhin waited.

“Talk to us about what is happening in Russia, in the army, in Spetsnaz,” said Nate. “Do it for yourself; you deserve the rewards.”

“I would dishonor my uniform, my oath,” said Blokhin, shaking his head.

“They dishonor you already,” said Nate.

“You dishonor me; your proposal is an insult.” He didn’t ask how much, he just slammed the door.

“I want you to know that authorities in New York have fingerprints and DNA found in Daria Repina’s hotel room,” said Nate. “They will be compared against samples just taken from you by the Turks. There is no doubt there soon will be an Interpol warrant out for your arrest, and Washington will request your extradition to stand trial.” Blokhin smiled thinly. He knew Moscow would never agree to that.

“What this means is that you will be obliged to remain in Russia indefinitely, to avoid immediate arrest by a foreign government,” Nate continued. “Your days as a clandestine military operator are over. This neudacha, this fiasco, in Istanbul will be your last operation, an unfortunate professional legacy for which you will be remembered.” A bit dramatic, that. Nate knew Shlykov was already well and properly framed, and Blokhin at most would be criticized and demoted for his part. The added indignity of being pitched by the Americans after being arrested would be intense. Blokhin got up from his chair, returned to the corner, and leaned against the wall.

“I hope our paths cross again,” said Blokhin in English.

As he walked out of the police station, Nate erased Blokhin from his mind. He was meeting Dominika tomorrow. Nate took a deep breath. Godamn hell, shit-bitch, as Hanefi would say. This was going to be tricky. He could attend to the debriefing professionally, no problem. Intel first, followed by ops intel and CI. Establish a sked for future meetings, then review security, sites, and signals. Doing all this in five hours (the last Bosphorus ferry back to town was at 1800 hours) was going to mean they would sit down and work straight through. It would mean Nate must keep his mind on business, even if Dominika put her slim, cool hand on his arm, or if her just-washed hair brushed his cheek, or if she laughed and stuck out her tongue at him. He would ignore that trademark sideways glance that meant she wanted him, invariably accompanied by the barely perceptible lifting of the hem of her skirt, a come-on from her Sparrow past. He could imagine Gable’s comment (“Nash’ll be playing twenty toes with her in five minutes”) and Forsyth would shake his head ruefully, disappointed.