“And now lunch,” said Putin. He led the way down a parquet-floored corridor with white walls picked out in gold leaf, and onto a broad sunny terrace ringed by a heavy white balustrade. At the center of the terrace, under a billowing canopy, was a table set for three, with sparkling crystal and elegant plates with blue and gold borders. On each plate was a ramekin, swaddled in a nest of snowy linen. Dominika could smell the heavenly aroma of crabmeat and Imperial sauce. The tops of each ramekin were baked golden brown, and the sauce still bubbled around the edges.
“Crab Imperial,” said Gorelikov. “Marvelous. We used to eat this in Odessa as students.”
“Try a forkful, and see if this is not better,” said Putin. The delicate crabmeat melted in Dominika’s mouth. An ice-cold Vernaccia was the perfect wine, and she accepted a second glass. But the image of Daria Repina floated in front of her: the sun went behind a cloud, and the piquant Imperial sauce in her mouth turned to copper.
Dominika would add this news about the murder to her thermos concealment for tomorrow’s personal meeting, but she would withhold Blokhin’s name. He was hers, and she vowed to kill Sergeant Iosip Blokhin herself someday.
“Didn’t I tell you the president had his eye on you?” said Gorelikov in the official car back to Moscow.
Dominika smiled. “It’s quite an honor. I can hardly believe it,” said Dominika. “And congratulations on your award.” Gorelikov bowed graciously.
“I was a bit surprised to hear about Repina, though,” said Dominika. “What actually happened? You could have told me, Anton, seeing as how I was meeting SUSAN.” Gorelikov waved her comment away.
“Repina was beginning to embarrass the Russian Federation, the Russian people, and the president,” said Gorelikov. “We previously sent emissaries discreetly requesting that she moderate her activities and manifestoes. She chose to ignore those requests.”
“So Blokhin was assigned to eliminate her? In America, in
“Shlykov guaranteed that there are seldom mishaps when Blokhin is assigned a mission,” said Gorelikov. “Besides, I did not want you burdened with the foreknowledge of the impending action. You sound upset that Repina was dealt with,” he said.
“I have scant sympathy with citizens who would harm our country,” lied Dominika. “But I will tell you something, Anton. If I had known of the plan to assassinate Repina, I would have tried to disrupt the plot. Russia is skilled and ingenious in achieving its goals—and no one more so than the president himself—but destroying dissidents sullies the Federation and makes them enduring martyrs. We must abandon the old ways.”
Gorelikov looked at her, then turned to stare out the car window. “I happen to agree with you,” he whispered, “but the president knows his mind, and has the requisite experience. I have mentioned to him the exact views you have just expressed, and he realizes the cost, and is willing to pay the price.
Gorelikov called Dominika back to the Kremlin the next day, ostensibly to backbench a meeting of the Security Council, but in reality to introduce her to the most powerful men in the realm—a coming-out appearance for the soon-to-be SVR Director. These
