The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

“You do not, under any circumstances, tell her. She cannot fall apart, not now. Keep her focused. She’s got to lead us to MAGNIT, we have to wrap up that illegal in New York, and she’s got to make sure Shlykov is thrown in prison.”

“Pretty long to-do list, Simon; you forgot ‘bury Marty Gable.’ ” Nate braced for the explosion, not really caring. Surprisingly, Benford’s voice was muted.

“You know perhaps better than most, what he would have told you right now. He would have told you to do your job, protect your asset, get the intel, and set up the next contact. I would add that you should make him as proud of you as he always was.” Nate swallowed hard.

“I’ll send the cable when we’re finished,” said Nate.

Istanbul safe house AMARANTH stood behind a massive wooden gate with iron studs topped by medieval spikes. The gravel drive wound slightly downhill toward the water. The ornate villa—yali in Turkish—with its sloping red-tile roof stood alone amid pine trees right at the edge of the Bosphorus, its lower foundation continually wetted by the gentle wakes from passing Black Sea freighters. The interior of the yali was magnificent, full of elaborate moldings, and painted ceilings, and walls decorated in endless geometric Islamic patterns in gold and turquoise. A broad central salon was graced by a bubbling marble fountain. The salon was flanked by corner sitting rooms that overhung the Bosphorus, cooled by breezes through panoramic gallery windows. The corner rooms were furnished in high Ottoman style, with low sofas and massive copper tray chargers on carved wooden legs. Up the curved staircase of pink marble, on the second floor, four broad bedrooms featured canopy beds in peacock blue. Each bedroom led to a matching bath.

Nate drove to the safe house via a circuitous SDR over the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge into Asia, where he strung together a series of stair-step turns and loops in the hilly neighborhoods of Üsküdar, Ümraniye, Görele, and Zerzavatçi. During one loop in the scrubland, he stopped at a turnoff and used the surrounding gnarly hills as a sound-catching bowl to listen for the purr of fixed- or rotary-wing aircraft, a denied-area trick Gable had taught him. Nothing. These were poor districts, with muddy lanes and rusted satellite dishes, ruined trucks balanced on cinder blocks, and mountains of discarded tires visible behind corrugated metal walls strung with barbed wire. This Asian Istanbul was nothing like the glamourous enclaves of the coast road on the European side.

He was black; no surveillance team—not even those TNP pros—could stay undetected so completely and still know where he was. He had rented the little Hyundai that morning from the lobby of the Mövenpick Hotel in Maslak, so he was not sweating vehicle beacons. He knew DIVA would be as thorough, running a tight route before she got on the ferry. Given the splash she’d made by bagging Shlykov, a too-long absence from the rezidentura would be risky. Nate was not sure they’d have even five hours for debriefings. Nate’s final SDR leg—memorized by studying maps like an actor memorizes lines—was along Macar Tabya Caddesi, working his mirrors, and catching glimpses of the water between the trees. He drove through the gate, closed it behind him, and coasted down the gravel drive to the house. Its three stories, with ornate roofline, was painted pink with white gingerbread trim, incongruous in the piney woods.

Nate quickly surveyed the opulent interior. Triple doors on the ground-floor salon led outside to the breezy veranda with the Bosphorus glittering in the morning sun. There was a narrow strip of grass between the house and the pier. White wrought-iron lanterns were spaced along the breakwater wall. Some pasha must have had glittering soirees in this house, thought Nate. Time check. 0900 hours. She’d be here in three hours. He sat on a low couch in the Ottoman-style living room and reviewed his notes. He had rehearsed what he would say to Dominika, but he didn’t know if he could avoid telling her about Gable despite Benford’s orders. Would she still be furious at him? Now she was inside the Kremlin, enveloped by the approving embrace of President Vladimir Vladimirovich. She probably would become Director of SVR, and would be generating staggering intelligence for Langley. Her latest reporting had averted an apocalyptic terror campaign in this city.