The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

When Repina came out from behind the lecturn with the microphone in her hand like a rock star, and railed against the corruption, and the plunder, and the assassinations, and the wars, and the unholy alliances that had to end, the audience came out of their seats and cheered. Dominika kept her face impassive, but inwardly she was amazed to hear a Russian speak the truth, and give voice to her own indignant rage that had pushed her to CIA and a mortally dangerous life as a spy. She, Dominika, was working in the shadows, underground, while Repina was standing on the ramparts, in full sight. Her heart raced; this was an epiphany: she wasn’t alone; her countrymen were with her.

Blokhin was still in his seat, chin slightly raised, eyes locked on Repina.

“I cannot listen to any more of this kramola, this sedition,” said Dominika, getting up, faking impatience. “I’m going to my hotel to sleep. I have an early flight.” Blokhin didn’t move, but kept staring at the tall crusader in the spotlight, who was walking back and forth along the length of the stage, now excoriating the siloviki, the remora attached to the belly of the great white shark, feeding off the tendrils of meat dribbling out of the apex predator’s jaws. “Don’t start any trouble tonight,” she hissed, but he ignored her. Dominika paused at the door to watch Repina onstage, thinking she’d like to meet this charismatic woman someday. Perhaps Benford could arrange it. Then she pushed through the door, late for her rendezvous with Gable (she planned to tease him about her being tormented all day by memories of his kiss, to watch him squirm). A last look at Blokhin, whose black wings were unfolded over his head like a raptor about to take flight.

Repina’s presentation had concluded, and she was surrounded onstage by press reporters, admirers, and even people asking for autographs. Blokhin was standing quietly at the fringe of the hangers-on, smiling pleasantly and applauding with the rest of the crowd. It took an hour before Repina and her assistant, Magda, a scruffy young Muscovite activist, were free to go to their room on the sixth floor of the hotel (paid for by the City of New York). They were escorted by two officers of the NYPD, Sergeants Moran and Baumann, veterans of the force—Baumann had served on NYPD SWAT for six years before blowing out a knee during an assault and returning to regular duty. Both men had volunteered for this light protective detail because they needed the overtime; this gig qualified as premium double overtime, and there wasn’t any heavy lifting, basically just sitting on a hotel couch watching TV, eating chips, and drinking Coke. Going to the rallies was a pain, but no one was going to mess with Repina in New York City. Both sergeants were in civvies—they wore tweed sports coats over white shirts with Glock 19s in belt holsters on their right hips. Blokhin’s practiced eye saw the slight bulges of the 9mm pistols through the cops’ coats—called “printing” in concealed-carry circles, but not normally a concern to uniformed cops.

Blokhin just caught the elevator with the four of them, apologetically skipping through the closing doors and nodding courteously to them as he moved to the back of the car. Magda was chatting with Baumann, while Repina stared at Blokhin, her Russian nose sensing something familiar about him, his face, his clothes, the pheromones coming off him.

“Na kakom etazhe vy khotite?” asked Repina quickly in Russian, What floor do you want? Blokhin blinked at her, and in slightly accented British English said, “Excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t speak Polish.” Repina smiled back and asked, “What floor?” Blokhin said, “Five please,” having seen that Sergeant Moran, unmindful of one of the basic techniques of tradecraft, had already pushed the sixth-floor button, thus revealing their destination. Repina stared at Blokhin all the way up, and shrugged as he stepped out on the fifth floor with another nod and a muttered “good evening.” The two sergeants watched Scarface Blokhin walk down the hall as the doors eased shut.

“Most popular in his class,” muttered Moran to Baumann, who nodded. Repina and Magda didn’t get the joke.

In the fifth-floor alcove, Blokhin peeked out, scanned the ceiling, and identified the black fish-eye lenses of the security cameras, one at each end of the corridor. They could not see him in the elevator alcove. He slipped a light full-face neoprene balaclava over his head, pushed through the stairwell fire doors, and ran up one flight. Repina’s group was just entering a room halfway down the hallway, and Blokhin waited for them to get inside and close the door. He waited another five minutes, subconsciously flexing his shoulders and loosening his wrists. He walked up to the room, took a cleansing breath, and knocked lightly, as hotel staff or a chambermaid would knock. He dragged the hood off his head and kept his head down.