The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

Nate was sitting in the relative dark of the room, doors open, the long gauzy sheers floating in the wind. He peripherally registered movement on the lawn. It was Dominika, holding a small case in her hand. She had somehow gotten through the gate (or over the wall?) and come around the side of the house. Two hours early. Nate did not move, watching her through the French doors. She faced the water, dropped her bag, shook out her hair in the breeze, and looked at a freighter thrumming down the channel. She lifted one foot, then the other, slipping sandals off her feet. Her dark-blue summer dress billowed in the breeze, right out of Wuthering Heights. Nate walked to the open door and leaned against the frame.

“I’m sorry, but the property is not for sale,” he said. Dominika did not turn, but continued to look at the water.

“Are you the owner?” said Dominika over her shoulder.

“I represent the owners,” said Nate, stepping down to the grass and walking up behind her.

“Are you sure they will not consider selling?” she said. She turned around and brushed wind-blown hair off her face. She took a step toward him. They were inches apart.

“How much are you willing to offer?” said Nate.

“For a view like this, price is no object,” said Dominika. She put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Nate lightly held her waist. They stood like that for a long minute, then Dominika stepped back and wiped her wet cheek.

“Kak ty?” she whispered, in Russian, how are you?

“Privet,” said Nate, Hi. “I missed you.” Business now. “How did you get here early? How long do we have today? I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“I took a different ferry, then a bus, then I walked. It was a lovely morning.”

“When are you expected back?” said Nate.

“I told them I was conducting a security survey; no one will question me.”

“How long?” said Nate, who could feel his scalp.

“Tomorrow night,” said Dominika. “I return to Moscow the next morning.”

“You can be out of pocket that long? Are you sure?”

Dominika nodded. “And where is Bratok?” she said. He rarely missed a meeting with her.

“He’s away on a trip,” said Nate, without inflection.

They had two days together, alone. Nate looked at her, the high cheekbones, the straight nose, the smooth forehead. There were new faint lines around those blue eyes that flitted over his face, reading the corners of his mouth, looking for clues about them. The bubble popped when Nate said they should go inside and get to work. Dominika smiled, reached for his hand, and walked barefoot with him into the house. His halo had flickered when he mentioned Gable, but she ignored it.

Dominika was on the parquet floor, sitting cross-legged on a plush rust-red kilim pillow. Nate was on the couch, which was covered by sheets of yellow legal pages from the last three hours of debriefing. Nate had also recorded the entire session on his TALON note-taking tablet. It was common practice to both record and take notes: the former would be a precise record of Dominika’s words and intelligence reports, the latter a more convenient summary from which to draft cables to Headquarters.

A spiral map book of Moscow lay open on the floor. It had been annotated by Dominika to designate possible new dead-drop and SRAC sites, if she ever received replacement SRAC gear. They reviewed exfiltration pickup sites, the ones Moscow case officer Ricky Walters had described. Dominika sniffed that the exfil sites should be saved for those hysterical assets who would agree to defect in time of crisis.

“Domi, stop being dramatic,” said Nate. “We have to be prepared to get you out if something happens.” But he said it halfheartedly. Usually they argued about defection passionately. She noticed it.

After three hours, they both were tired. Dominika had filled in a lot of detail from her abbreviated previous reports dead-dropped in Moscow. No SRAC gear replacement was on the horizon. And there were still no hints regarding MAGNIT.

“There is one more important item,” said Dominika. “Please make sure Benford is aware of this.” Nate nodded. “The SVR has established contact with the Chinese intelligence service.”

“The MSS?” said Nate. Russia and China? This could be big, he thought.

“At the orders of the president,” said Dominika. “But something is not right. We do not trust them and they do not trust us.”

“Then what is the point of opening relations?” said Nate.

“We are exploring possible areas of mutual interest,” said Dominika. “But I think my exalted president wants something bigger. Tell Gospodin Benford that it is my guess that Putin will do what he can to worsen relations between China and the United States. It is only my guess, but tell Benford that.” An agent’s opinion—a source comment—was valuable.

“Domi, this is important. Can you get more details as it develops?” said Nate.