The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

“Of course. The Kremlin—Putin—has already designated Line KR as the lead office to meet with Chinese representatives. He wants me to report directly to him. I have not received specific operational directions, but the MSS are deceitful. Podozrevat, I smell a mouse.”

“You smell a rat,” he said. Dominika shrugged. She had stretched out her slim legs and was touching her toes to work out the kinks. “When you know more, let us know. But go softly, be careful,” said Nate.

“Thank you for the tradecraft lesson,” she said, nonchalantly, trying not to smile. “I am to meet the Chinese general in Moscow when I return.” Nate made more notes, but she knew something was wrong. Nate’s halo was faded and waning.

“Is something bothering you?” she asked.

Nate buried his head in his tablet. “What?” he said.

“You are acting strangely.” She wondered if she would ever tell him about the colors. She decided to try to distract him. “You should try stretching, to relax, like we did in ballet.”

Demurely holding her dress down, she extended each leg out to the side in a perfect split, toes pointed, then leaned forward to touch her chin to the floor. “In yoga, it’s called Upavistha Konasana,” she said, “in Sparrow School, the Divining Rod. What do you call it in CIA?” Her chin still on the floor, she looked at Nate and blinked once.

Irrepressible Sparrow instincts, thought Nate, looking at the femoral and adductor muscles of her thighs flex. The familiar passion was there: he couldn’t feel his tongue and there was a numb spot on the point of his chin. But Gable’s face kept intruding. Now his resolve to stay professional, for her sake as well as his, was also for the memory of Gable. She straightened, brought her legs up and hugged her knees, and blinked at him again.

Dominika saw the pulsing purple halo around his head and shoulders, and was worried that he had changed, that he was tired of her intransigence, or that his disciplinary troubles finally had oxidized his love for her. She had not changed her view that, despite the senior CIA men’s protestations, their love affair was acceptable, something that sustained her, a justifiable departure from the rules of tradecraft and agent handling.

Bozhe, God, she wanted him. The expectation of being with him had grown when she had boosted herself over the wall of the villa this morning. The Sparrow tagline No. 99, “A whistling samovar never boils over,” came to mind. But the decorous Russian in her would not be so nekulturny, so base as to stand up in front of him now, shrug the spaghetti straps off her shoulders, and step out of her dress. She would not push him back on the couch, with her hands on his chest, and trail her breasts across his face. No, she wouldn’t. They looked at each other shakily through the midday light. A ship’s deep bass horn sounded in the channel, as if signaling the end of round one.

Nate gathered all his notes and stuffed them into his duffel. They went into the kitchen to find something for lunch. The modern kitchen was reasonably stocked by the safe-house keeper. Nate examined the refrigerator and carried an armful of ingredients to the big central table. Dominika boosted herself onto the counter and watched him while swinging her legs. He diced onions, crushed garlic, sliced a few mushrooms, cubed two tomatoes, and cut two chicken breasts into bite-size pieces. He sautéed everything with oregano and a glass of Kavaklidere white, then covered the stew with grated Kaşar cheese and a spoonful of ezme, spicy Turkish tomato sauce, from a jar in the fridge. He then put the sauté pan in the oven to melt the cheese to golden brown.

“It is like our chicken Orloff,” said Dominika, sniffing the air. “But we do not have this southern fascination for garlic.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Nate. “I remember the Moscow subway in the summer—underarms, vodka, and cigarettes. You couldn’t smell garlic if you tried.”

“Quite amusing,” said Dominika, but she knew he was right.

“There’s only one rule about garlic,” said Nate. “Everyone at the table has to eat it.” He walked around the table and stepped up to the counter between her dangling legs. He put his hands on her shoulders and without artifice, pecked her on the mouth. “Tonight I’ll make Chinese stir-fry without garlic. I saw bell peppers in there.” He went to the oven to check the pan. Not quite ready.

The brotherly kiss had her lips tingling. Was he teasing her, spinning her up? She watched him, assessing the purple around his head and shoulders. Was he trying to act professionally and not make the first gesture? Was he testing her? She caught herself swinging her legs faster in agitation. Do not be nekulturny, she told herself.