“Yes, I’m sure it does all this and more,” said Benford. “How long does it last?”
“We don’t know, simply because we haven’t had enough time to test perpetuation,” said Hearsey. “It adheres well, and propagation—how it transfers—seems good. If your illegal handles that phone cover, then hits a light switch in her office, touches her keyboard, or drinks coffee from a mug, we can find her.” Benford nodded.
“I’ll trouble you to courier this personally to New York today with Westfall, connect with Gable, and explain it all to him. I’ll ask you to spray the phone and its cover yourself—keep DIVA completely away from it—and ensure she can load the phone in a dead-drop site of the illegal’s choosing without contaminating herself.” Hearsey nodded and unfolded his lanky frame to stand up and get going.
“Hearsey, I’m appreciative of the work you have done in such a timely manner,” said Benford. “You have my thanks. I would have in years past written up an exceptional performance award for you, or a laudatory unit citation for your team, but in the achromatic Agency of today, I am reduced instead to presenting you with a gift certificate to the Starbuck’s coffee emporium here in Headquarters so you can enjoy what the gum-chewing young woman behind the counter astoundingly calls a grande café latte, with milk.”
Angleton looked down on them slantidicular from the wall.
PARMESAN FRICO APPETIZERS
Mix coarsely grated Parmesan and flour, then season with red pepper flakes and black pepper. Spoon cheese in a medium-hot nonstick pan, flatten gently into a thin disk, and cook until golden on both sides. Drape still-hot frico over an inverted shot glass or teacup and let cool and harden into a Parmesan cup. Fill with a bruschetta mixture of diced tomatoes and shallots, seasoned with sugar, oregano, red wine vinegar, and olive oil.
10
Heaven vs. Hell
The penultimate day in New York. The meeting with SUSAN was concluded, there were no messages from Gorelikov in the Kremlin, and the fund-raising event with Russian dissident Daria Repina was at six o’clock that evening at the Hilton on Sixth Avenue. Dominika made a big show of meeting Blokhin in the morning and walking around Manhattan with him. They had all day. She planned to slip away after the Repina event and meet once more with Gable to spritz her phone with spy dust and emplace it in SUSAN’s Manhattan dead drop site, an unknown pocket cemetery on a residential side street. She wouldn’t have to accompany Blokhin after six o’clock: they were returning separately the morning after, Dominika through Paris and Bucharest, Blokhin through Berlin.
Blokhin wore a jacket with all three buttons tightly secured, bumpkin-style. He was stiff and formal as they walked, affecting not to look at the wonders of the city: the traffic, the people, and the display windows, as cool as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But Dominika saw him sneaking looks, and she wondered how his Spetsnaz-wired brain was processing the maelstrom of wealth and industry swirling before his impassive face. He walked well-balanced, with his arms at his sides, and his wood-clamp hands hanging loose, free and ready for action. His forehead gleamed in the sunlight. Dominika darted glances at his ruddy profile; he could have been a farmer or an outdoor laborer. Yet the peasant’s face reflected God-knows-what horrors. He did not speak to her, and Dominika elected not to make small talk with him. What would they say to each other in any event? Look how tall the buildings are? How much is that in rubles? What did you use to hang the Afghan president’s mistress off the palace balcony?
Dominika was taller by a head, but Blokhin’s body was thick, no,
