The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

She bitterly realized that this modern villa soaring above the sea was lipovyy, literally a lime blossom, but figuratively it meant something false, a fake, a forgery. Her grandmother from Saint Petersburg used to whisper to her stories from the bibliya, the Book, about temptation. This dacha was nothing more than Satan’s plate of silver in the desert that tempted Saint Anthony. Vladimir Putin would trade this house for her loyalty, the Directorship of the SVR for her conscience, and her induction as a silovik for her soul. She stood dripping wet in the shower, shivering. The villa now was gray and ugly, the sunlight harsh and revealing, the cicadas a painful buzzing in her ears. She had come this weekend out of curiosity, to see her dacha, to acknowledge Putin’s gift, to get away from the crenellated walls of the Kremlin. Now she knew there would be no rest in this cement lockbox. She would have to suffer a savorless night and return to Moscow tomorrow on the shuttle flight.

Dressed in a light sweaterdress and wearing flats, Dominika walked at dusk along the paved path toward the massive main house—through the trees she saw its lights ablaze on every floor; the staff would be preparing for the upcoming Unity Day gala. As she walked in the failing light, she saw the cherry glow of a cigarette in the woods, then another on the other side. The grounds were swarming with security. A bruiser sat in a cart where the path crossed another. He watched her walk past him without nodding or acknowledging her.

Putin’s personal bodyguard belonged to the SBP, the Presidential Security Service, which was an autonomous element of the FSO, Federalnaya Sluzhba Okhrany, the Federal Protective Service, a reorganized agency loyal only to Vladimir Putin and tasked exclusively with the protection of the Russian Federation, which meant anything the siloviki wanted it to mean. Dominika had heard the rumors about the president’s outwardly blasé but secret fear of assassination; about the plastic containers of prepared meals, sealed and signed by food tasters; and about the most-trusted men of his protective detail, uncouth new millionaires who had been given blocks of shares in the State-run petroleum, manufacturing, and railroad conglomerates as a reward for their loyalty. She wondered if the towering irony was lost on Vladimir Putin that the leader of a modern nation, with nuclear weapons and a space program, feared political murder as the tsars before him feared the silken strangler’s cord. Even Josef Stalin felt it. He was famously quoted as saying, “Do you remember the Tsar? Well, I’m like a tsar.”

The meticulously manicured inner courtyard of the palace was massive. A white marble fountain bubbled in the center, and ropes of white lights hung from poles and were strung along the second-floor windows of the mansion. Dominika was directed to a small private dining room where she was served in silence by a waitress with downcast eyes. The selection of dishes went on for pages, with ingredients that were not to be found in all of Russia, not even in the five-star restaurants of Moscow or Saint Petersburg. She chose a tuna carpaccio with grapefruit and fennel like she’d had in Rome, just to see what they would do with it. The tuna, sliced paper-thin, came on a large chilled plate dusted with fennel fronds and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. It was delicious.

Dominika felt slightly ridiculous sitting alone in a little dining room, but the mansion and the entire compound—including outdoor amphitheater, spa club, screening room, indoor and outdoor pools, library, and massive barbecue deck—was deserted, the lull before the president and scores of guests arrived in November. She was resigned to walk back to her dacha through the dark, watched by eyes in the woods, and go to bed. She would think about Nate, as she always did at night, and wish he were there with her lying on the balcony chaise lounge, working on getting a moon burn. She got up from the table and walked down the hall toward the exit when she heard a voice behind her calling in accented Russian.

“Excuse me, Miss, but do you have the time?” A young man in his twenties with dark hair and blue eyes was standing in an open door. He wore a work shirt and jeans, was muscular but thin, with strong forearms holding up either side of the door frame. His face was ruddy and unshaven, and his mouth was more like a woman’s mouth, with full lips.

“You are wearing a watch on your left wrist,” said Dominika, intuitively replying in English. “An instrument often put to use determining what time it is.” This elicited a thousand-watt smile from the young man, which was, Dominika had to admit, somewhat charming.