The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

Nate was secretly pleased. He was contemplating a dreary evening alone in his threadbare room watching the Berlin Euro Pop Contest on television. Agnes had other ideas. Whatever servomotor was ticking inside her, the chaste three-day return cruise apparently had spun it up to red-line levels. They made love everywhere but the bed: on the floor, in an armchair, in the bathtub with a sputtering hydro jet, and standing up on the tiny balcony ghost-lit by the neon hotel sign on the roof. Her heady perfume—she told him it was Chanel Cristalle Eau Verte—mingled with the whiff of Bunker C fuel oil from the harbor around the headland. She had whispered czuje miete dla ciebie, I feel mint for you, in colloquial Polish, meaning she had feelings for him. Mint wasn’t the only thing she felt.

Hours later, hands shaking, Nate poured Agnes some bottled water, but she was asleep on the bed, on her back, mouth open in a six-orgasm syncope, hair fanned out on the pillow, her witch’s streak partly visible. Nate floated a blanket over her and sat on the armchair across the room, looking at her breathing. Sleeping with Agnes the first time had been a midnight impulse fueled by pre-op nerves. Tonight it was a celebration, relief at getting out of Russia in one piece, maybe a bittersweet farewell. Nate rubbed his face and groaned. Maybe he wanted to put impediments between him and Dominika, so he wouldn’t—could not—stumble with her again. He resolved to properly act as backup to Gable during meetings in the safe house. He would arrive late, and leave early, making sure Gable was always in the room. He would let Gable explain to DIVA why Nate was acting like a skittish puppy, let him deal with the inevitable outburst. Only one problem: Nate loved Dominika. As if Agnes could hear his thoughts, she mumbled fitfully in her sleep, and turned over. She feels mint for me, thought Nate, miserably.

The next day they were waiting for their separate flights at the airport. In a white blouse, pink skirt, and sandals, Agnes looked cool and collected.

“Do you think I am too old for you?” she asked Nate, who looked up in alarm.

“After last night, I’ll let you know once my chiropractor hammers my spine back into alignment,” said Nate.

“I am being serious,” said Agnes.

“No, I don’t think you’re too old for me,” he said. “But Agnes, there must be somebody in your life.”

“I think there is somebody in your life,” she said, ignoring his question.

“What makes you say that?” said Nate. Scary good radar, he thought.

“Zerkalo dushi,” said Agnes in Russian, searching his eyes. Mirror of the soul, thought Nate. Christ.

“Things are complicated,” said Nate, who had no intention of discussing his seriously contorted personal situation.

“You live in London, isn’t it?” Agnes said.

“And you live in California.”

“Not so far, I think,” she said, not looking at him. Nate didn’t answer.

“Would a visit to London sometime be a bad idea?” Agnes said, then kissed him good-bye.

The Station’s outside line rang with an exultant Hanefi on the other end. “Nate Bey, come quickly; there is a police car waiting for you downstairs.” He was shouting over the sound of gunfire, a lot of it, including automatic weapons.

“Hanefi, where are you?” yelled Nate. “Are you all right?”

“Godamn hell, shit-bitch,” said Hanefi, who was still learning to swear properly in English. “Çabuk olmak, come at once.”

The drive in the dented police car, blue lights flashing and hee-haw siren wailing, driven by a jug-eared twenty-year-old police corporal who pounded the steering wheel when traffic did not part, was transcendental. Gable’s phrase “scared as a sinner in a cyclone” came to mind. Metal ammunition boxes strewn on the rear seat slid back and forth on the curves. They weaved through traffic across the Galata Bridge, and rocketed down the south side of the Golden Horn, past the darkened Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, under the O-1, and into the dingy Eyüp district. The corporal took a steep road up the hill, tires squealing and fenders scraping along the stone guardrail. At one of the switchback curves, the entire sprawl of Istanbul was visible, its city lights bisected by the black slash of the Bosphorus; the end of Europe and the start of Asia. Dominika would be down there, and they’d be together in two days.