The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

She kept her face impassive, but felt the refrigerator chill of the president’s eyes. “Unfortunate,” said Dominika. “There never was any doubt of his guilt.” There was no way Putin would advertise a covert-action failure with a noisy public trial, she thought. Shlykov was doomed from the start. Dying secretly and unmourned in prison was a common fate of miscreants since the days of the Bolsheviks.

“I congratulate you again, Colonel; your diligence and energy are exemplary,” said Putin. “You’re becoming quite the mole catcher.”

Dominika willed herself to be still. “Spasibo, Mr. President,” thank you, said Dominika, and kept quiet after that. She read this man closely, watched his colored aura. He did not value fawning, talkative sycophants—he looked for efficiency, discretion, and loyalty.

“Once again, the Americans intrude,” said Putin. “Istanbul was a debacle.” Dominika again suppressed laughter. You have no idea zolotse, nugget, thought DIVA.

“They wish to isolate Russia in the mirovaya zakulisa, the world backstage,” he said. There it was, Putin’s favorite domestic trope—the conspiracy of Western leaders against Russia—to stoke nationalism and distract attention from food shortages in the cities. Never mind that Putin’s terror plot was defeated. Never mind that her dear president’s estimated personal net worth from plundered national coffers was $100 billion.

“A momentous opportunity exists to unseat America,” said Putin. “I wish you to become involved in our plans.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Dominika. Is he going to mention MAGNIT?

“I want you to work with Gorelikov on the case.”

“This case is the one managed by Shlykov and the GRU?” asked Dominika.

The president gave her a vinegar smile, and shook his head. “The case, it belongs to me,” Putin said. His cerulean halo pulsed with the unspoken ancillary thought that Dominika could read plain as day: And so do you.

Gorelikov was eating lunch, waiting for her in his office, visibly apprehensive at not being invited to the private meeting between the president and Dominika. A lunch cart was beside his desk. His simmering blue halo suggested he was nervous lest Putin think he and Egorova colluded to undermine Shlykov and his operation.

Mindful of the Kremlin chandeliers that hear every conversation, Dominika reassured him discreetly. “The president complimented me on a counterintelligence coup,” she said knowingly. Gorelikov’s face relaxed. He pushed a plate of golden Crimean carrot fritters toward her, slathering one with yogurt sauce for her.

“You heard about Major Shlykov?” he asked.

“Suicide in his cell?” said Dominika.

Gorelikov leaned toward her, whispering. “His loyal aide Blokhin was given the opportunity to atone for being detained by the Turks and pitched by the Americans. Apparently quite a disgrace among the Spetsnaz groups.”

“Blokhin killed him?” Nate had told her about pitching Blokhin in a Turkish police station. The brute must have been humiliated.

“The traditional bullet behind the ear,” whispered Gorelikov. “We find it useful to retain some of the old traditions. Shlykov’s nerves deserted him at the last minute. They stuffed a rag in his mouth to stop his screams—like Yehzov in 1940 and Beria in ’53—nothing’s really changed from the charming early days of the Revolution.”

“Loyalty for superiors runs deep in GRU, obviously,” said Dominika.

“Blokhin is a maniac. But with Shlykov’s demise I believe the Istanbul covert action will be forgotten. FSB Chief Bortnikov likewise is pleased. He told the president he admired the way you wrapped up the matter.” Don’t thank me, thank the Americans, she thought. “Another carrot fritter?” said Gorelikov, holding it out to her, like feeding time at the petting zoo. Executions in basements and yogurt-smothered carrot fritters. Today’s Russia.

Gorelikov picked up a file folder. “We have spoken about this before, but I would like you to set aside a few hours to meet the new MSS representative to Moscow, three-star General Sun Jianguo, of Chinese State Security,” Gorelikov said. “Reports directly to the Minister of State Security in the State Council in Beijing. He speaks excellent English, from a previous posting to London. Beijing recently initiated contact, discreetly, claiming they want to improve and expand cooperation with Moscow, and the relationship between security services is a place to start. General Sun arrived last week to assume his duties.”