Palace of Treason (19 page)

They stared at the ceiling. Outside the window, the Prater was dark and still. The streets were quiet except for the whine of a garbage truck in the next district emptying bins with a roar of bottles and cans. The compressor in the little refrigerator in the kitchen kicked on with a rattle. Dominika’s foot moved slightly and touched his. Nate looked at the luminous dial on his watch: 0400. The fridge compressor shuddered and stopped. They didn’t look at each other.

“Of course I shall go back to Moscow,” Dominika said in the dark.

The next morning Nate signaled Vienna Station for a meeting in a coffee shop a block off the Augarten and was surprised and delighted to see Kris Kramer, a former classmate from the Farm—they had begun calling him Krispy Kreme in the first week—quartering the block, checking his six, before sidling into the café and sliding into the booth. Kramer was short and dark and focused, had been first in their class, but they had not seen each other since graduation. In ten minutes Nate related what had happened the night before—Kramer took notes on a Hello Kitty spiral pad that belonged to his six-year-old daughter. “I was at home when you called, grabbed the first thing I saw,” he said, daring Nate to give him shit about the pad.

When Nate finished, Kramer looked at him sideways. “Quite an evening,” he said.

Nate shrugged, handed over his TALON, told Kramer the password, and asked him to get the downloaded intel to Langley immediately, with a drop copy to COS Forsyth in Athens. “When you forward the files, please send an ops cable. Just tell them that DIVA’s okay and that I left the laptop behind so the Persians still think their secrets are intact. I’ll tell the whole
story again to Benford tomorrow.” Kramer nodded, exited the café, and dematerialized around a corner.

It was eight o’clock in the evening when they met again, in the atrium café in the Hotel König Von Ungarn on Schulerstrasse behind the cathedral. They ordered beers and a small plate of croquettes with speck and Gruyère. Nate read the note from COS Vienna with instructions from Headquarters, specifically from Simon Benford, chief of Counterintelligence Division.

Benford would arrive in Vienna the next afternoon, and Marty Gable was coming from Athens—he was already in the air. The note was elliptical, but said they would discuss the next steps regarding DIVA’s future and for exploiting the newly acquired information. Nate reread the note. He registered the silky feel of the paper and looked at Kramer, who nodded. Nate stuffed the water-soluble paper into his water glass. The paper fizzed and turned to the consistency of oatmeal in half a second. Kramer looked at him over the rim of his beer.

“You’ve been busy since Moscow,” he said, popping a croquette and sipping beer. “All I hear is stories about Nash: working with Simon Benford, Restricted Handling cases, big recruitments, Athens fireworks, pursued by assassins in nighttime Vienna. And now this mysterious laptop download. I don’t know the details, of course, but it would appear, nugget, that rumors out of Moscow of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”

“Not so much,” said Nate, blushing, and it occurred to him that the career torments of his early years were over, replaced by more serious stakes. He was working on projects other case officers would never know, had worked ops that did not normally develop in the space of five careers.

“Your favorite patron, Gondorf, is alive and well, you’ll be glad to hear,” Kramer said, sensing Nate’s mood and trying to lighten it up. “He left Moscow Station a shambles, too scared to send anyone on the street. They gave him Latin America Division and he nearly destroyed that: Word is that on a visit to Buenos Aires, during a liaison reception with scotch-swilling Argentine generals, Gondorf ordered a drink that came with an umbrella—you don’t recover from something like that. They sent him to Paris, where he is now, apparently insulting the DGSE in his high school French—you know how that service is.”

Nate laughed.

“I should get going,” said Kramer, eyeing the last of the croquettes. “I
have to open up the house you guys are going to use tomorrow. Wait till you see this place. US Army used it for defector debriefings after the war, and now Station keeps it for contingencies … like when the great Nate Nash comes to town. Three stories, tower room, covered in ivy, in Grinzing, use the number thirty-eight tram.”

“Krispy Kreme, thanks for all the help,” said Nate. He knew what it was like, having to tend to safe houses for visiting colleagues.

“No problem, glad to assist,” said Kramer. “I get vicarious pleasure watching you operate.” His tone became serious. “Watch yourself, okay?”

Early evening and Nate and Dominika walked quickly from the next-to-last tram stop in Grinzing toward Heiligenstädter Park. The fluid move off the tram had not flushed any suspicious pedestrians, and their zigzag route—at one point they separated, then circled back on each other to look for a reaction—away from the station revealed no vehicles scurrying into position. Arm in arm, Dominika and Nate transitioned from “thick”—the bustle of touristic downtown Grinzing—to “thin”—the solitude of the park—and checked their status once, twice, a dozen times. They walked along the pathway, past a row of acacias with lamplight winking through the leaves. It was dead still as they turned into Steinfeldgasse—the street was gently curving and narrow, and it dead ended against the park. No coverage.

The house sat apart, close against the trees—massive, Gothic, covered totally in ivy, from entrance columns to the ragged slates on top of the square tower anchoring one side of the house. The ivy had been trimmed—hacked—from around some of the windows. The curtains were drawn and only a small light showed in an upstairs window. Nate expected to hear insane Bach being played on a pipe organ by the deformed monster in the turret.
Did the Agency employ deformed monsters?
he wondered.
I mean, apart from the emotional ones? I’ll ask Gable.

Nate thought of the desperate refugees, soldiers, informants, sympathizers, and defectors, who must have looked up at this façade before going in to be interrogated by US Army investigators in the months after World War II, with Vienna a moonscape of tumbled bricks piled two stories high, the city awash in poisonous bootleg penicillin. Now they were going inside to meet with Simon Benford, to discuss the future, to determine whether Dominika would survive a return to Moscow. None of them wanted to lose her, as they had lost General Vladimir Korchnoi, their prize snatched away by a single sniper’s bullet; From Putin with Love.

The house had an overgrown yard, low spiked iron fence, and granite front steps worn to gentle scoops. The massive oak door had decorative wrought-iron straps across it. They stood for a second, listening to the
street behind them, and to the house in front of them, then looked at each other: All quiet. They knocked and Gable opened the door, gray buzz cut fresh, eyes crinkled, forearms around each of their shoulders as he led them inside.

The lamp-lit living room was 1920s Austria—high ceilings, dark wood lintels, faded carpets, a milk-glass chandelier, and cracked leather armchairs. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across leaded windows, blocking out the orange light from the streetlamps along Heiligenstädter Park. Stag horns were mounted high on a far wall. A log popped in the immense fireplace, taking the chill out of the cool night air. A sideboard with drinks ran against the wall, and there was a wax paper–lined box with what looked like baked buns. Benford pointed to them, said they were meat-filled and delicious.

There were only four of them in the room. Simon Benford, seeing everything, surprised at nothing, amused at even less. He was characteristically rumpled, his hair uncombed, and he sat in one of the ponderous armchairs blowing cigarette smoke toward the flue in a halfhearted attempt to keep most of it out of the room. It looked as if he had slept in his nondescript black suit. A pair of glasses was pushed up onto the top of his head: Nate knew that sometime during the evening he would start looking for them, cursing.

Marty Gable, square-jawed, just arrived from Athens, slouched on a matching leather couch, legs stretched out in front of him. He wore a short khaki vest with zippers and pockets. Dominika sat next to him, leaning back, her legs crossed, dangling a flat off one bouncing foot—her personal tell—nervous, excited, impatient, perhaps uncooperative; they’d have to wait to find out. She was dressed in a beige light wool dress with a wide lizard belt—it clung to her, softened her curves in the diffused lamplight. Her face was tired and drawn from the stress of the previous evening, but behind the fatigue Nate could see the luminance of emotion from their lovemaking.

It had been nearly a year since Benford had seen her: Dominika was proper and reserved in front of him, but Nate saw her eyes soften with affection when she greeted Gable again—
Bratok
, big brother. Nate was sweating it: Gable was looking at Dominika like the big brother he was to her.
Fucking Gable,
thought Nate.
He’s picking up her postcoital glow
. Gable
glanced at Nate across from him in the other armchair with a five-cornered look. Benford flipped his cigarette into the fireplace and leaned forward.

“We have a lot to discuss and scant time to do it,” he said. “I would start with telling you both that I am relieved beyond measure that you survived the ambush by the Iranian team. I commend you.” He lit another cigarette.

“I will continue by saying that Dominika’s production has been superior, and we look for future reporting not only regarding her service but also on the plans and intentions of the Kremlin. Policy makers in Washington are struggling to understand the anatomy of the Russian Federation and President Putin’s impulsions. Dominika, your evolving access can vouchsafe understanding, to the extent the hammertoes in the White House and on Capitol Hill are capable of understanding anything.” He flicked cigarette ash on the carpet.

“I personally believe that the president has as his singular priority to preserve his position and exploit the emoluments that derive from his office.”

Dominika looked at Nate. “Putin wants to stay president and continue stealing money,” he said in Russian. She nodded.

Benford looked up at the ceiling. “Putin’s domestic image is impeccable, flourishing in an atmosphere of ultranationalism and fading civil liberties. This is fueled by the quite charming Russian appetite for conspiracy theories about an inimical West, and is not at all threatened by either a besieged independent press or a battered dissident movement.”

“Putin has no opposition at home,” said Nate in Russian to Dominika.

“So as long as he is the popular lord of a quiescent nation,” said Benford, “foreign misadventures, provocative sponsorship of rogue states, and warlike military gyrations—regardless of the outcome and irrespective of international condemnation—do not threaten what he holds most dear: maintaining power.”

“He can do anything he wants as long as Russians do not complain,” said Nate.

Dominika’s foot bounced in agitation. “Gospodin Benford,” said Dominika. “The only thing the president fears is angry people in the streets, like in Georgia, and in Ukraine. He does not want that, how do you say,
likhoradka,
in Red Square.”

“Fever,” said Nate. “He doesn’t want that fever breaking out.”

“Thank you, Dominika,” said Benford, “for confirming my suspicions.
Whether it takes five years or fifteen, when it becomes too much for average Russians, they’ll kick him out of the Kremlin.”

“Dvorets v Izmene,”
said Dominika under her breath.

Benford looked over at Nate, one eyebrow raised.

“Palace of Treason,” Nate said.

“Works for me,” said Gable.

“Two issues now pertain,” Benford said. “First, Dominika’s security and her ability to continue operating inside Moscow. Second, the information on the Iranian’s laptop, which is now being analyzed in Headquarters. Dominika by necessity does not need to know—cannot know—about the latter—”

“She knows,” said Nate. He was strangely calm as Benford looked over at him.

“Nathaniel, your trademark grammar notwithstanding, I have asked you before not to speak in cryptograms. What do you mean ‘she knows’?”

“I told her about the covert action. I also showed her the nuke requirements before we met Jamshidi.” Dominika had stopped bouncing her foot and was looking at Benford.

“Dominika, apologies in advance,” said Benford, who then turned toward Nate. “You briefed
your asset
on a covert-action operation?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nate. “She had to know.” Benford did not move and Nate felt the rush of stepping off a plank into the sea. “We were face-to-face with Jamshidi—thanks to Domi—and we both had to play the part. She knows the details of what they’re hatching in Moscow to buy the seismic floor for Tehran. She’s part of that; Putin talked to her about it personally. It’s spectacular access. It’s all in my report.” Benford waved his hand in recognition. Nate plunged ahead, pointedly not looking at Gable.

“The Center is going to read about Jamshidi’s assassination, and Dominika is going to have to explain why her operation blew up on her. We suspect with relative certainty that it was Zyuganov, but she needs a cover story about how the Persians went nuts, killed their own scientist, and made a try at her. She’s skating right on the edge now.

“Zyuganov is treacherous,” Nate said. “He already has an eye on her and if he hears anything from the MOIS about a second mystery man they chased around Vienna, she’s in big trouble.”

“The Persians will not communicate with the Service,” said Dominika,
“and the Center will not seek them out. Zyuganov will be focused on the business deal.”

“The business deal we need to know about if PROD is going to be able to substitute flammable support beams for the floor,” said Nate. “We all know this is an immense opportunity,” he continued, sweating. Benford’s face was a mask; he was giving nothing away. “I assessed the elements, and I tried to maximize the odds. Domi is risking her life for us, and I decided to tell her details. For her own security, she
had
to know.”

The room grew silent. Part of the log fell off the grate in a shower of sparks. Gable got up, popped the cap off a cold beer, brought back two of the buns, and offered one to Dominika. They were
runza,
like Russian
pirozhki,
buns filled with savory ground beef, onion, and cabbage. Her foot bobbed up and down as she munched, watching the three Americans, reading their colors. No one spoke for a full three minutes.

“Nathaniel, you display an uncharacteristic intuition,” said Benford. He got up from his chair and went to the sideboard. “I approve.”

“That’s it?” said Nate. Dominika looked over at him, eyes twinkling.

“No, it is not ‘it,’ ” said Benford. “The stakes are bigger than ever. And there is a unique opportunity before us. As you may have divined, this procurement by Moscow of specialty construction material for the Persians is in fact a rare opening to massively affect Iran’s nuclear program, because imports of embargoed equipment from Western sources are now routinely eschewed by Tehran. Technology supplied by Moscow would in consequence be accepted without hesitation or suspicion.”

He ran his hand over the tops of a variety of bottles, deciding what to pour. “Dominika, you will be in double danger, I am afraid, because we are going to ask you to report on President Putin, on his plans to purchase the German floor system and circumvent the West’s sanctions against Iran. That necessarily will require that we communicate with you inside Moscow, and that you transmit frequently.” He turned toward Gable and Nate.

“I have directed a technical officer to be here, tomorrow morning at the latest. Dominika has to be trained on covcom; she has to be able to communicate instantly.”

Dominika’s foot continued to bounce. “Excuse me, Gospodin Benford,” she said. All eyes turned toward her. “I understand the need for communications,
and I will do it. But I would not like one of your satellite systems, the kind you assigned to General Korchnoi.” Korchnoi had used satellite-burst transmissions to Langley right up until the day he was arrested. Letting the equipment fall into the Russians’ hands had been part of Benford’s plan to give credence to his capture, and to confer credit onto Dominika.

“Your concerns are understandable, but unfounded,” said Benford. “These systems are immensely secure. I want to issue one to you.” The two case officers—Nate and Gable—looked at each other: They would have gone in more softly, worked gently to get her to agree. They knew how Dominika reacted to authority.

“
Mozhet byt,
perhaps,” said Dominika. “But our signals service—FAPSI—is now looking at your satellites and ways to intercept their transmissions; they are experimenting, how do you say,
treugol’nik
, throughout Moscow. Lines T and KR are focused on this. Korchnoi’s arrest convinced them to concentrate.”

“Triangle?” said Nate. “You mean they are triangulating?” Dominika nodded.
Another compartmented stream of counterintelligence intelligence—signals countermeasures in metropolitan Moscow,
thought Nate. From the expression on Gable’s and Benford’s faces, the same thought had simultaneously occurred to them. Benford stood and started pacing.

“We absolutely need you to communicate reliably,” said Benford, an edge creeping into his voice. The blue halo around his head was intense. Dominika looked over to Nate for support.

“What about short-range agent communications?” said Nate. “Domi can send SRAC messages to Moscow Station, or to a base station, or to a ground sensor anywhere in the city. Two-way encryption, three-second bursts, low watts: If we do it right, the exchanges are impossible to anticipate, impossible to detect. She just has to get into line-of-sight.”

Benford scowled at him, but he knew it was a solution. “What about it?” Benford said turning to Dominika. “Did you understand what Nate just said?”

Dominika shrugged. “Our Service has similar equipment, what you call SRAC.” She pronounced it “shrek” instead of “shrack.” “What I do not understand, Neyt will explain,” she said. Gable looked at her, then at Nate, reading the pheromones. Fucking Gable.

“All right,” said Benford, nodding to Gable. “Get the techs going on it.
We’ll have to sweat the drop in Moscow, but I want her to have SRAC as soon as possible.”

“You got it,” said Gable.

“One thing more,” said Benford. “I want you to stay up all night if you have to, work with Dominika on an exfiltration plan. We have another full day, no more, then she will be expected back at the Center. Tell Headquarters I want to issue her a secure exfil route. Tell them to send out the binder on Red Route Two. Brief her on it till she has it cold. I do not anticipate, nor will I accept, the possibility of an operational misstep, but if the unthinkable occurs, if she has to run, I want her to have the best escape route we own.” He picked up a bottle and looked at the label, then looked down at Dominika.