“After the
“Do you think he is susceptible?” asked Dominika.
“If he has predilections, they will become apparent in time,” said Gorelikov, casually. “Men, women, children. Spirits, drugs, gambling. Tasting pain, or inflicting it, we’ll know soon enough.” Dominika smiled knowingly, hiding her contempt.
“Even as we watch the dragon carefully,” said Gorelikov, “China may be useful in depleting US influence on a second front.” He bent to prepare another fritter for Dominika, but she held up a polite hand in refusal.
“China could be very useful,” said Gorelikov, counting on his fingers. “Alternate petroleum markets, military-equipment sales, cyber operations against American infrastructure, a tangible challenge to US naval hegemony in the Pacific. A cooperative allegiance with Beijing could potentially be of great benefit. Naturally you will assess the feasibility of intelligence operations against these Maoists here, in Beijing, and in Hong Kong.”
“I will run traces on General Sun. Perhaps something useful will appear.”
Gorelikov shook his head. “We’re doing this on our own, you and I; let’s see where this takes us.” Dominika realized that she was becoming Putin’s personal operational fixer. Another success—with Chinese liaison for instance—would almost certainly win her the Directorship of SVR.
She took another swing at MAGNIT. “The president mentioned Shlykov’s sensitive case. What is the status of that?”
Gorelikov smiled. “All in good time,” he said.
Dominika met the MSS general for lunch at the White Rabbit, the internationally acclaimed restaurant on the rooftop sixteenth floor of the Smolensk Passage Building in the Arbat, on Smolenskaya Square, the long dining room completely under a curved glass roof with breathtaking views of the Moskva River and Stalin’s looming Gothic Ministry of Foreign Affairs skyscraper. The restaurant interior was a dreamland of extravagant artwork hung every which way, brightly colored couches, and a neon-lit bar, all under the scudding afternoon clouds of early summer. Dominika chose a dark chalk-stripe suit, with a white blouse buttoned at the neck, dark stockings, and black flats. No cleavage or come-fuck-me heels today.
She was already seated at a choice corner table for five at the end of the room, against the downward sweep of the clear canopy, when General Sun appeared by the maître d’ station. He was accompanied by a tall young man who scanned the room, leaned to whisper in the general’s ear, and pointed at Dominika. Bodyguard. Sun came down the two steps and made his way alone across the dining room between the tables. The young man remained at the entrance, never taking his eyes off the general.
General Sun was short and stout, in his sixties, with a smooth flat face and jet-black hair, no doubt dyed. Rheumy black eyes under upward-arching eyebrows gave him a perpetual quizzical look, as if he were struggling to understand what was being said to him. There was a canary-yellow halo around his head, signaling deceit, calculation, disingenuousness.
He stood at the table and bowed slightly, then offered his hand in a mild fleeting handshake. He was dressed in a pearl-gray suit with a starched white shirt and a muted striped tie. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” said Sun, in heavily accented English. He sat across the table from her, unrolled his spotless linen napkin, and put it on his lap. At the academy they would have recommended he take the seat next to her, to establish a connection, to position himself inside her space, but that’s what aggressive SVR Russians would do. Cautious and introverted Chinese officials, in full defensive mode in the Russian capital, would be different. In contrast, Dominika knew Nate would scoot his chair close so their knees were touching, and drape his arm across the back of her chair. But what else could you expect from
