The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

It was just 1200 and Professor Ri would appear a few minutes from now. Nate would play a subordinate role during the debriefing, asking CIA intel requirements at appropriate times. Ioana would take a walk during the meeting, standard procedure, but also convenient in that Dominika wouldn’t have to explain who Nate was, at least not right away. Dominika had been toying with the idea of recruiting Ioana for CIA—she would adore Bratok, she knew—and the notion of a subagent, a confederate, helping her in this work was something she wanted to discuss with Benford. She was sure it would work, especially if Ioana graduated from Sparrow status to operations.

When she opened the cottage door she knew the world had caved in. The little living room was a mass of splintered furniture and fallen bookcases, including an overturned, blood-soaked armchair that had been slashed a dozen times, its stuffing scattered over the floor. The galley kitchen was ankle deep in broken plates and glasses. Nate silently motioned to the door, indicating that they should get the hell out, but Dominika shook her head and whispered “Ioana.” Stepping over detritus in the living room, they checked each of the tiny bedrooms. In one, Ioana’s clothes were strewn across the bed and a bedside lamp had been thrown in a corner and smashed. Dominika’s face was white.

They found Professor Ri facedown in the tub in the bathroom, remnants of the five liters of his blood slick along the tub walls, most of it already down the drain and likely feeding the Danube carp. They went back out into the living room, Dominika’s face a grim mask.

“This was Shlykov. He just terminated my North Korean case.”

Nate kept looking around, listening for footsteps. “Shlykov did this?” he said.

“No,” said Dominika. “This is the work of his Spetsnaz bulldog. A man named Blokhin, who killed Repina in New York.”

“Where’s your girl?” said Nate. “Wasn’t she here waiting for your agent?”

“I don’t know,” said Dominika. “I’m worried.” She snapped her fingers. “The recorder.” She went to the sideboard cabinet—it had not been touched—and took out the wire recorder Ioana had installed in anticipation of the debriefing. She plugged it into a wall socket, rewound it, and punched “play.” Nothing but the hiss of dead air. “It’s voice activated,” said Dominika. “She would have put it in standby mode before Ri arrived.” The hissing stopped and Dominika froze, staring at the spools. The two concealed wireless mics had picked up muffled conversation.

Blokhin’s voice suddenly came through clearly, speaking English (so the bastard spoke English all this time, concealing it, thought Dominika). His voice was quiet and silky, then Ioana’s voice, angry and indignant, then Blokhin switched to Russian, harsh and brutal, followed by the cacophony of a struggle. Ioana was strong and lithe and it went on for some time, the sound of her ragged breath first faint, then loud as she moved away from or toward the microphones. There was the constant sound of breaking furniture. Dominika looked imploringly at Nate, then back at the recorder, as Ioana cried an abrupt “nyet!” followed by a groan, then silence, then moaning, and Blokhin’s silky voice again, in English, asking when the Asian gentleman was expected, and would Egorova be coming with him, and Ioana’s voice spitting an obscenity. The sound of a slap, then a heartrending scream, quickly muffled, and Ioana woodenly droning that the meeting was postponed, Egorova wasn’t even in the city, and another scream, What was he doing to her, was she tied in a chair? and then a faint knocking at the front door and Blokhin’s voice moving away, then disappearing altogether until a man’s high-pitched wail was faintly heard while Blokhin did in the bathtub whatever he had decided for the North Korean. While he was out of the room, Ioana, breathing heavily, spoke to the concealed microphone in an urgent trembling whisper. Her voice was tinny and hung in the air.